Drug of Choice

“Listen,” she said, taking a sip of her drink. Her face was already flushed from a previous drink; she looked young and pretty and very sexy. “I’ll tell you something. The life of a young girl in this town — I mean LA — is pretty miserable. You want to get into the business, and you grow up thinking, dreaming about it, how wonderful it would be, attending your opening night and climbing out of the limousine wearing a chiffon gown and a white fur coat… And then you start working on it, you quit school one day at sixteen and you say the hell with algebra, I’m going to make pictures, and you start working. You get an agent. I had a jerk named Morrie Sandwell. He set up some meetings with producers, sort of introducing me around. The producers explained how tough it was for a newcomer to break in, how a new girl really needed the guiding touch of an experienced person in the business, someone with contacts. So okay, you get your contacts, you go along with the touch, because you have that dream of the opening night, and getting out of the limousine and looking up at the marquee with your name there. It’s a good dream.”

She pushed her drink away.

“And then one day you wake up and realize what the hell you’ve been doing, hanging around with a bunch of nasty old guys and nasty old hotel rooms and too many drinks and too many sour laughs. And all you’ve got to show for it is a walk-on in Gunslinger and two lines as the cook in Gorman’s Heroes. And you just see it, clear and plain: you’ve been used.”

“And then?”

“Then you start seeing someone like Dr. Shine. He was very good for me. He got me out of this corporation-manipulation thing, and into something else. He made me believe that I could control my destiny. So I fired my agent got a new one, and started fresh. I played with a new set of rules — my rules — and it was a whole new game.”

She looked at him steadily.

“And I’m winning,” she said. “This time, I’m winning.”

It was raining in Miami — a cold, October rain that presaged a hurricane brewing to the south. They had two hours in the airport and wandered around together, looking at the shops, having a hamburger and a drink. Then Sharon said she wanted to try on sweaters in one of the airport stores, and Clark went off by himself. He walked aimlessly, not paying much attention to anything.

And then he realized.

He was being followed. It was a short man with a plastic clear raincoat which showed a rumpled blue suit underneath. Clark walked on, then looked back.

The man was still there. He had a bland, expressionless face. Clark wondered if he was one of the passengers on the plane, but could not recall his face. But he was attentive when he boarded flight 409 from Miami to Nassau, New Providence. The man in the raincoat did not board the plane with him. Odd, he thought. Sharon was already in her seat. As he sat down, he said, “Find anything?”

“No,” she said, “they were all wrong for me.”

There was a hazy, humid sun in Nassau. They were met at the small terminal by a representative of Eden Island, who helped them all through Bahamian customs with remarkable ease, and then led them outside to a bus. It was a normal sort of bus, except that it was painted flame red and hot orange, with black lettering on the side: EDEN ISLAND EXPRESS.

They climbed aboard and were given grapes and other fruit while the man explained that the bus would take them to the seaplane.

“Purely a temporary arrangement, folks,” the man said. “You see, we haven’t yet built the airstrip on Eden. But they’re working on it. Of course,” he said, “most people find a seaplane quite an experience, yes indeed, quite an experience.”

Clark stared out the window for the duration of the dreary trip from the airport to the port of Nassau, set down beneath the crest upon which the old fort was erected. The bus drove directly to the waterfront, and pulled up before a large seaplane. Everyone got on board.

The passenger section was quite dark; the windows had all been covered with black paint.

“So it’s true,” Clark said.

“Oh yes,” Sharon said. “The location is a big secret.” She smiled. “Of course, it’s only a publicity stunt. By now all sorts of people in private planes and yachts will have found the island and charted it. But it’s a good gimmick.”

Drinks were brought around as soon as the plane was in the air, but Clark didn’t have one. He was tired, and the monotony of the dark cabin was conducive to sleep. He must have dozed off, because when he awoke the airplane was rocking in a steady, rhythmic way, and he could not hear the sound of the propellers.

“What’s happened?”

“We landed,” Sharon said, smiling. “They just tied up to the dock.”

The passengers were already beginning to stand and stretch in the aisles.

Clark said, “But if we’re tied up, then—”

“In a few moments, well see Eden Island,” Sharon said, and smiled with radiant excitement.

The forward door was opened, and sunlight streamed into the cabin. The passengers began to file outside.