The Protocols of Carstairs
Copyright© 2021 by Ron Dudderie
Chapter 14: Plane Frustrating
Sunday, September 20th, 2015. Monterey theatre and wedding reception hall.
It was well past midnight before Arturo allowed me to extricate myself from the reception area. You’d think he had been up on stage himself. I had my picture taken with dozens of people, some of whom looked VERY suspicious. Omar and Alexandra had left right after the show, but Asim was also here, making friends and influencing people as only he could.
“SO! Where is the AFTER party?” asked Arturo, putting his arm around me pulling me in like he was a gameshow host and I’d just won a car for the fifteenth time that night.
“Not for me. I gotta do this twice more. I’m going to bed. Ladies, gentlemen, it’s been a pleasure meeting you. Thank you.”
Arturo was going to object, but an elderly hispanic gentlemen who seemed to have some sway over him basically ordered Arturo to cut me loose.
The technical crew had already left, as had most of the band members. I wasn’t quite sure how I’d get home, but I knew Peter would be around and I looked for him backstage. And there he was, playing Edmund’s electronic piano. I think it was Schubert, but I couldn’t identify the piece. The stage was still lit up as it was during the last applause and I quietly walked towards him via a side row. Eventually he noticed me.
“Don’t stop on my account.”
“No, that’s okay. I was just killing time, waiting for you,” he said, and closed the lid. He turned on the seat to face me.
“Did you have fun?”
“Oh, yeah. The adrenaline has worn off, though. I’m just tired.”
“Of course you had fun, you bastard.”
“What?”
“I said ‘bastard’.”
“That’s what I thought. Why?”
Peter scratched his head. He looked around the empty theatre.
“I never really had the time to watch you work. You’re ... such a bastard!”
“Peter, are you drunk?”
“I am, but not much. You know, I’ve been in this business ... thirty years? Yeah, about that long. I take it seriously. But to you this means nothing. This is just ‘fun’. If I were to give you back your job running my fucking computer network, you’d be happy.”
“Probably.”
“Whereas if you applied yourself ... If you gave a SHIT about this ... You could be...”
He held his flattened hand horizontal, far above his head.
“I did my best!”
“Yeah you fucking did! You pulled a fucking show out of your arse in less than two days because I GOADED you into it. Before I made you angry you didn’t give a shit if this was going to be a dull performance or not. And you STILL don’t. Not HERE.”
He put his fist to his heart.
“Not here, where it matters. This was just a means to an end to you. Make Arturo happy, make the prince happy, give him his deal, find out his plans. But if we had been at home and I’d come down to your office and said: ‘Hey, wanna make a Vegas show?’ you’d have LAUGHED me out the room. Wouldn’t you?”
I shrugged.
“I don’t know. I don’t think I’d have been mean about it. But tonight I had fun. What more do you want me to say?”
Peter grunted something and got up.
“Come on, let’s go home. Hey, I only have to make ONE phone call and two or even three of the most beautiful women in the world will be waiting in your bed when we get there. Would you like that? I’ll take another room. Nobody will ever know.”
I sighed.
“Just get us a car, Peter. I’m tired. And I’m married.”
“You would say that. Bastard.”
Peter was very quiet on the ride back to the hotel. We shared my suite now, but there was plenty of room. Housekeeping had been busy doing turndown again, leaving a bloody towel swan on my bed, and chocolates. I was so hungry I nearly ate the swan as well. I was so tired my cheeks were glowing and there were no more chemicals left in my brain to make me feel good. After fifteen minutes of tossing and turning I switched on my phone and visited PornHub, but nothing there held my interest for very long. I’ve seen breasts and pussy before. It just made me miss Melody. Eventually I got up, walked on hotel slippers to the large drinks cabinet in the main living space and found a bottle of rum. I poured an inch or so, diluted it with Coke Zero and downed it. It was disgusting. But five minutes later a warm glow relaxed my tired muscles and I finally managed to sleep.
I woke up far too early for my taste, at around seven. Peter and Asim were already having breakfast in my room and to my surprise they were joined by Alexandra. The three of them were laughing.
On account of Lexy I put on a hotel bathrobe and opened the door.
“GUYS! I was still asleep!” I grumbled.
“Hey there, mister show business!” said Asim. “Come! We have ordered a big breakfast for you. You deserve it!”
I now noticed the chafing dishes with scrambled eggs and sausages, pitchers of milk and stacks of toast. The stuff of dreams!
“Oh! Well, in that case ... Give me a minute!”
I hurriedly put on some clothes and joined them. Peter had left the table and Asim took the opportunity to whisper something in my ear.
“Carstairs, good news. The first transfer went fine. No problem at all. Omar is VERY happy.”
“Good. Very good. Where was it?”
“A warehouse, somewhere. Lots of guards! We all searched each other for listening devices, it was a lot of ah ... fuss. But it worked! Tonight we do it again, but during the show. Even though I would love to see it again! Alexandra! You liked it too, right?”
“Yes, Professor,” smiled Alexandra. “You could, like, totally do this for real!”
I pulled a face.
“No, thanks! Good thing Peter knows what he’s doing or I’d have been in real trouble.”
Peter emerged from his room, holding an iPad.
“THE REVIEWS ARE IN! Well, one. But it’s a biggy: the Las Vegas Review-Journal!”
“What, is that an actual newspaper? Because it sounds like some coupon rag they hand out for free.”
“It is very much a real newspaper. Circulation: One hundred and sixty thousand! And it’s been syndicated to ... The Denver Post and the Oregonian. Which I assure you are also newspapers, bigger even than this one. So, who will do the honours?”
“You read it,” I said, scooping up some more scrambled egg.
“Don’t mind if I do. Okay, it’s in my email. Lemme see ... Oh.”
KING DELIVERS HOT MESS IN VEGAS
The actor Martin King, whose sudden disappearance sparked speculation amongst his small fan community in the UK, recently surfaced in Las Vegas. Out of the blue he announced a performance there, which took observers by surprise as all respectable venues were running long established shows with world class performers.
“I take it then that you didn’t actually read it first?” I sneered, and buttered another piece of toast before it would all be taken away from me.
“Well, ah...” said Peter, putting down the iPad to scratch his head. “I was there and I thought it was fucking brilliant. So I ... I’ll ... I’ll read ahead, shall I?”
“Please do.”
Asim wasn’t going to wait for that: without a word he got up and stood behind Peter, reading along over his shoulder. And then HE started to read aloud!
“King, who has not managed to gain any traction in Hollywood, clearly decided another avenue of approach was needed. Though his funding didn’t stretch to include any advertising and reputable resorts weren’t interested in giving out any tickets to their guests, he could at least rely on a mercy-tweet from megastar Phil Smith, who recorded a brief, informal video message saying he’d like to have some free tickets. This somehow managed to fill the little-used Monterey theatre, although ‘VIP-tables’ were used to pad out the space. Even British fans were flown in to fill the seats, some under the mistaken impression that this was going to be a Dr. Who-themed event. (Dr. Who is a long running, low-budget British TV show about a man who repeatedly fakes his own death, which would be a role well within King’s reach.)”
“That last line was in parenthesis,” explained Asim.
“Oh, was it? Good. Could you read ahead QUIETLY, Your Royal Highness?” I asked, and poured myself a glass of juice.
“But none of this is true, is it?” complained Asim. “You didn’t pay for tickets for those ugly people?”
“Well, I didn’t.”
“Here’s a good bit!” said Peter, who had kept on reading.
“At least King had the good sense to share the limelight, relying on a talented singer for much of the heavy lifting. Ms. Verónica Torreón hails from Mexico and is hoping to build a career in the United States, notwithstanding the fact that she barely speaks English and sings with a heavy hispanic accent. That has a charm all of its own, though, and she adds some much needed glamour to what can otherwise only be described as...”
Peter’s voice trailed off. Fortunately Asim was there to save the day by blurting out what Peter didn’t.
“ ... described as a desperate audition for any scouts from L.A., as King showcases a variety of impressions (for most of which he needs a hair piece), some ‘European’ style comedy routines that fell flat with an American audience and... ”
Peter switched off the iPad.
“That’s enough, Asim. We shouldn’t subject Mr. King to all this. It’s just one review. I’m sure there will be others. I know when I’ve seen a clunker and this wasn’t it.”
“And Omar liked it too!” said Asim, as if I’d value any kind of praise from that guy.
“Well, there you go,” I said, and considered going for another sausage and some egg, but then thought better of it. “I imagine your army of little elves will get to work on this. Peter, would it be too much to ask if we did another rehearsal this afternoon?”
“Uhm ... People have a right to some time off, you know. Martin, you don’t have to change the entire show just because of one bad review. It’s FINE, really!”
“I know. But it could be better. Just me, Verónica and Edmund would be sufficient. The technical side was excellent, no argument there. The band was magnificent. But Verónica and I aren’t really a well-oiled machine yet and I think that warrants another hour or so. With Jonathan and your good self in attendance, please. Now ... this was delightful. Breakfast, I mean. Would you excuse me? I’m late at the pool.”
I swam for about an hour. Wisdom has it you’re not supposed to swim on a full stomach, but I’d only had a regular breakfast and I’m hardly breaking any records. I was quite sure I’d be able to swim five feet to my left if my stomach played up. And anyway, there was a life guard in attendance as well. It was nice to have some time to myself, to review last night. I had never expected that chasing down Diana’s murderers would eventually lead me to Las Vegas. It was never a dream of mine. In fact, being on stage was only ever a passing fancy. Peter was right: I would give this all up without a second thought. But perhaps that was part of the secret of my success. I was never really nervous, because I never felt my life depended on the outcome. And I wasn’t afraid of taking risks either, for much the same reason. But at the same time, it is a sensational feeling to be up on stage with a wonderful band and hearing yourself sing in a way you never thought possible. I’d prefer never to set foot on a movie set ever again, but I do enjoy the stage. And perhaps I should stop thinking less of myself for that.
As the pool became more and more crowded with the grey-haired crowd that favours the Four Seasons and eschews open air swimming pools where the beautiful people strut and preen I decided I’d get dressed. Maybe that awful fitness instructor was lying in wait, keen to bill Peter for yet another day. Maybe I’d go along with it just one more time, so I could tell myself I’d done everything Peter asked of me.
In the narrow corridors between the changing stalls I was suddenly approached by a sturdy looking hispanic guy. Somehow I assumed he was working for Arturo. He wore slacks and a polo neck shirt, which was perfectly reasonable attire for a changing room.
“Hey, Martin!”
“Yes?” I asked wearily.
“It’s ME. Luis. Remember?”
“Luis ... LUIS!”
Luis was Phil’s bodyguard, or rather his chief of security. We’d had an adventure, Luis and me. He felt he owed me one after I saved him from falling to his death and boy had he delivered.
“Yeah. You okay, man?”
“Luis, what are you DOING here?”
I know Phil pays his staff well, but he was ex army and never struck me as the type who would spend his time at the Four Seasons. Unless of course, Phil had checked in!
“Is Phil here?”
“Yeah. Well, not here. Listen, are you in trouble? Because I can get you out RIGHT now. We go through that door, we get in a car and you are GONE.”
This conversation caught the attention of an elderly gentleman who was taking off his shoes to place them in the shoe rack, but Luis didn’t seem to care. He seemed on edge.
“Luis, I’m fine!”
“Really? You disappear, you show up in Vegas, your sister calls Phil but she doesn’t really know what the hell you’re doing and you are on stage with a woman ain’t nobody ever heard of? And there’s Arab princes hanging around with their own security detail? But you’re FINE?”
“I am fine. I don’t need rescuing.”
The old guy disappeared in a stall, but obviously not out of earshot.
“Hang on,” said Luis. He put one hand behind his left ear.
“Found him. He says he’s okay. Doesn’t want to come.”
I didn’t hear the reply.
“Not here. We ain’t alone,” said Luis, as he stared at me and seemed to be gauging if he could carry me. Not if I didn’t want to be carried, my friend.
“Okay. Then I guess I’m out of here. Yeah.”
He turned his attention to me.
“Phil wants to be in the audience tonight, with some friends. Jay. Halle. Johnny. Maybe Denzel. Is that safe?”
“I have no reason to think it isn’t.”
That wasn’t clear enough for Luis.
“Would you bring your own son?”
“Yes. I mean, I hope to God he’s not there, but yes. It’s safe.”
“Okay. Well, then I’m gonna go. Listen, you owe Phil. Big time. You know that, right?”
“I do. It’s appreciated. I’ll be available after the show. Has he got tickets?”
“Yeah. Your manager had them reserved. Okay, we gotta move our car. In that case I’ll see you tonight, Ese.”
“Okay. OH, WAIT! Luis...”
I gestured for him to come close, so I could whisper.
“This is a bit weird, but if Phil could steer clear of me when I’m around any Saudi people? Princes, the princess, security, everyone who...”
Luis pulled back.
“Yeah. We’ve been briefed. Well, we’ve been told a very weird story that got Phil so worried he sent me and some guys to come get you. When this shit is over, you come over and you sit your ass down and you explain yourself to us. You get that? Or the next time I won’t say hi but you will be coming with me in a fucking shipping crate.”
“It’s been a lovely talk, it really has. But I’m running late for my Zumba class, so...”
He was still shaking his head when he left the changing room area. I gave him a few seconds head start, got up and tapped the stall door the old man was using.
“We’re done, Sir. Thanks. Have a good one.”
“Uh ... uh you ... you too! And sorry!”
Tuesday, September 22nd, 2015. The morning after the last performance.
“Can I at least SEE it?” I asked Omar as we walked from the VIP gate to the airplane. The aircraft was protected by a virtual phalanx of Saudi security officers.
“There is nothing to see, Mr. Carstairs. It’s just a bunch of wooden crates and now they are inside aviation containers,” he sighed. “And I’m not going to unload one and open it up just so you can see a pile of bills. Which are wrapped in foil, as well.”
“Fair enough, I suppose.”
It was hot, especially out here on the tarmac. Earlier that morning we had all said goodbye to Mr. Green, who had shamelessly made every effort to be invited to join us in Saudi Arabia. Omar had stonewalled him, but I could tell Asim was tempted to bring Peter along. They got on well. I wondered if Peter had dropped his American accent yet.
Asim and Alexandra were walking ahead of us. Alexandra was once again dressed with the modesty expected of a Saudi princess, but Asim would probably keep his Western clothes on until we were in Saudi air space. The all male cabin crew was standing at attention, but we didn’t have any tickets for them to inspect as this was not a commercial flight. Arab music, against which my tolerance had slowly increased, played softly in the background as we took our luxurious seats in the private cabin at the front of the plane, away from the guards and the crew. I had intended to sit there, as I had last time I was on this plane, but Omar just grunted:
“Up front with us, Mr. Carstairs. Let the guards have some time to themselves.”
“Very good, Your Royal Highness.”
The Captain welcomed us aboard in mellifluous Arabic. We’d be in the air for about sixteen hours. I would be spending at least eight of those asleep and the rest of the time I’d read the LA Times review again and again and again. Peter has assured me he hadn’t paid anyone to write that, but he was able to tell me who had written the nasty one in the Las Vegas Review-Journal: a certain Mr. Giles Stone, who I didn’t know from Adam. But when we Googled him I learned that he was gay and his boyfriend was Rupert Brooks. The pair of them were pictured, smiling and holding hands at a red carpet event somewhere. It took me a while but then I remembered I had met Mr. Brooks at Nudes-a-Poppin’, an open air event I attended with my friend Samantha two years ago. I ended up telling Peter about it, including the fact I had lured Rupert to a cabin with the promise of some gay rumpy-pumpy so that Samantha could steal some incriminating pictures. Obviously I didn’t go through with it, but in hindsight I should have kept it to myself because Peter went almost mad with joy about this anecdote. Me pretending to be gay, even if it was for all of fifteen minutes was easily the most entertaining thing he’d heard all decade. They’re so closed-minded, aren’t they? The poofters, I mean.
So anyway, that explained the hit job of that first review. I am very happy to copy here verbatim the review which appeared in full on the website of the L.A. Times and in abbreviated form in the San Jose Mercury News, the Seattle Times and the San Francisco Chronicle, amongst others. A few days later rewrites would appear in the British papers, written as if the fucking Sun had its own reporters on the ground in Las Vegas.
Anyway, here’s the online version. The print version was quite a bit shorter but who buys actual newspapers nowadays, right? It begins thus:
CARSTAIRS CONQUERS VEGAS
Now THAT is what I call a succinct, honest and above all impartial headline. That is proper journalism, mate. Stick to the facts, don’t get swept along by your emotions.
It seems odd to review a show you will never get to see. Once this review appears you have about six hours to get to Las Vegas and get tickets to a show that is sold out and will likely not be performed again. But I found myself so enthralled by ‘Still Alive in Vegas’, the show that British actor and singer Martin King threw together during his suddenly noticed absence that I can’t resist writing about it. I received a single ticket from his agent, or rather an email to say that one was waiting if I picked it up at least two hours before the show. I’m so glad I did.
By Stephen Bergheim, arts correspondent
The show opens to a stage that seems to have been abandoned in haste at least twenty years ago. There’s a big illuminated staircase, but most of the bulbs have gone dark. We see overturned music stands and a toppled grand piano that has lost its front leg. Spotlights dangle from the ceiling, as does a large neon sign of which we can only see the shattered back. It doesn’t look promising, but who would raise the curtain on that mess?
Then a man walks on and apologizes on behalf of the Monterey, which he does very convincingly. He tells of a booking made by Mr. King to appear here, after which he seems to have gone to ground. We are all offered refunds and drinks vouchers, but just as the first few indignant people are about to leave, an odd couple appears on stage. A husband and wife, who seem to be in their late fifties, are dressed in greyish rain coats they have somehow not checked in. She wears a woollen hat, he wears a French beret, pulled down so that it sits tight around his head. They both wear horn rimmed glasses. The woman, a quiet type, carries a bag with two hands, as if shielding herself from the world. But her husband, who speaks English with a weird European accent, is a lot less shy and cajoles the casino manager into letting his wife, whom he claims is very talented, sing. The woman looks terrified at this idea.
The man recruits someone from the audience to lift the piano, then uses the volunteer as a replacement piano leg in an act of pure slapstick. It then turns out he can’t actually play, so he switches places with the volunteer, who can. At this point the entire audience has returned to their seats, mesmerized by the bizarre scene that unfolds.
Of course the woman can sing. And when she does, she’s not nearly as dowdy as she seemed to be. It is the opening of one of the most magnificent evenings I have ever spent in the theatre. Pretty soon the weird European is unmasked by the manager as Martin King (in full black tie), who claims he is in hiding from the BBC. He would have put on a show, but there has been a mixup with the band.
The roll-up stage door opens, which is only visible for those seated on the extreme left hand side of the stage, and a bus pulls up outside with a haggard looking orchestra led by Edmund, a British musician. Hot Vegas air sucks all the air-conditioned goodness out of the room as the orchestra leader has a massive (but hilarious) fight with Martin King about a contract, and insists on appearing just to claim the fee. And so, over the course of an hour, what seems to be a disaster slowly but surely turns into a suave Vegas show. Electricians are called in to make repairs to the audio system, the orchestra is seated and changes into white livery in between songs, and as the damaged neon sign is lowered and turned around it reads: ‘Live in Vegas’, so it is duly raised up. Even the lightbulbs in the staircase come to life after a few well-chosen kicks. Waiters have appeared to take drinks orders from the audience and it starts to feel like a classic Vegas night, with duets such as ‘It Had To Be You’, ‘Something Stupid’ and ‘Baby it’s cold outside’. Martin King turns out to be a gifted impressionist, lacing his comedy monologues with impressions of Groucho Marx, Dean Martin, Michael Caine and characters such as Frank Underwood, Top Cat, Sergeant Bilko and many more.
The leading lady is Verónica Torreón, a newly discovered gem from Mexico. Her voice is suave and her accent sultry. She doesn’t seem to mind when King teases her, but the two clearly play separate roles. King is a capable and charming singer, but acts more like a host. He also performs sketches, including another blazing row with the orchestra leader (who continuously sabotages his pompous announcements by tacking a few more bars or an extra ending on to a song or a musical sting) and a weird and wonderful solo in which he plays a British army officer who almost loses his mind trying to repair a theremin. That bizarre and hysterical act completely wears out the audience (and the band members, who didn’t look as if they’d seen it before) and it is no wonder it is placed just before the thirty minute intermission. In a nod to the rumours regarding his disappearance, King coaxes the theme to Dr. Who out of the device. This leads to another heated debate with the orchestra leader, which eventually turns into a gun fight with soft foam bullets, fired from brightly coloured toy guns stashed in surprising locations. Those guns get bigger and bigger and a strobing light turns it into a dramatic war movie with several dramatic deaths that are scored live by the orchestra, or what remains of it. Bright balloons filled with glitter turn into hand grenades and the ensuing battlefield is covered in snow. Well, packing peanuts.
At this point several waves of near orgasmic joy have washed over the audience and King takes full advantage of our emotions by pretending to gear up for a dramatic ballad but then launching into ‘Trololo’, the song recorded in 1976 by Russian singer Eduard Khil that was recently unearthed and embraced by the internet. He walks around the room and invites people to sing a few bars, but finds almost nobody still capable of speech. Women scream when he approaches and men good-naturedly give it a shot but virtually none of them have enough air in their lungs to spare. I laughed so hard I almost feared for my life at that point and if the show had ended there, after about one hour, everyone would have gone home fully satisfied and in need of a stiff massage the next day. But we were only halfway through at that point.
When the curtain opens for the second time, the stage has become a ship. This is another nod to King’s supposed activities during his absence from public view. He pays tribute to Noël Coward by singing ‘Don’t let’s be beastly to the Germans’ and to Groucho Marx with a stirring medley which includes ‘Lydia the tattooed lady’ and ‘I’m against it’. Verónica gets the more serious songs and they do some more duets, including ‘Enjoy Yourself, It’s Later than You Think’ and ‘Desafinado’, which she sings in Portuguese and he in English.
King effortlessly mixes the tried and true Vegas formula with European styled elements, such as a hair-raisingly emotional rendition of Brel’s ‘Ne me quitte pas’ in unapologetic French, and Aznavour’s ‘Old-fashioned way’ in both the translation and original version, but most of the songs are what you expect to hear in Vegas from a man who (mostly) rocks black tie: Can’t Take My Eyes Off You, Strangers in the Night (one of only two shots at a Sinatra classic), Ain’t That a Kick in the Head and South of the Border. Duets with Verónica include a version of Aguas de Marco that’s worth half the price of admission alone (it is only three minutes, let’s be reasonable), Besame Mucho (on which they dance an intimate rumba that inspires almost a dozen married couples in the audience to do the same in the aisle) and Girl from Ipanema. I was told Verónica’s somewhat fractured Portuguese sounds as charming as her English.
There’s more, much more. King’s private life, particularly his absence of late (which seems adequately explained by being in rehearsal for this show), is subtly referenced in a number of gags. For instance, in the second half of the show the stage is dressed as a ship, with a wooden steering wheel, a rail with a buoy and a lifeboat. It’s a reference to the fact he was secretly filmed performing on a private yacht at sea for a mostly Arabic crowd, which he for some reason denies having done.
There was no press moment, no fanfare, hardly any advertising and by the time you read this there will be no more performances (that we know of). Which is a shame, because this had definite staying power. Some say King just wanted to leave a calling card for Hollywood agents, others think he was trying to live out a dream he had to get out of his system and that he may be back for longer now he realises how well it turned out. But even so, it is fair to say Martin King didn’t just survive Las Vegas: he conquered it, gave it the night of its dreams and quietly slipped away in the early hours of the morning, leaving all of us somewhat confused but with an unforgettable memory.
This article originally appeared in the Los Angeles Times. Our reviews are not influenced by stars or management and no compensation other than two courtesy tickets is accepted by our review staff.
I’ll be honest: that’s going to get printed out and framed. Unless I find out Peter bribed someone to write it, but I’m not really keen to solve that particular mystery.
The first night had been okayish in my book. I considered it a rehearsal more than anything. But the audience consisted primarily of Arturo’s cronies and consorts and they knew the guy was into jazz. They’d probably been to his club as well. So they got exactly what they expected: a show with lots of songs and some comedy routines. But once Verónica had played second fiddle to one of my characters (which I shamelessly stole from a Dutch comedian named Andre van Duin, or should I say ‘based on’) with an audience, an actual audience instead of a tech crew whose main motivation was always to keep performers at least happy enough to show up, she ‘got’ it. She got her role as the dowdy woman with the overbearing husband, she got the flirty bits, she knew when her best course of action was just to stand still and look bemused while I carried on and she was really a very good singer. So the second night we were on FIRE and inevitably the third and final night we became overconfident and messed up one or two things, though not in a way the audience would have noticed.
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