Surreptitiously, he watched them. So like the people in the script he was reading. Pretty, foolish people on a doomed voyage. But he needed a star. Someone who could sell it. Someone who could swim.
And then the universe gave him a gift. From the upper deck came that forced laugh with its faux-cultured trill, the stray French phrase unnecessarily tossed off, the voice which telegraphed a history of big blowsy blondes with clingy ways and aspirated cardiac breathing. When he reach her on the observation deck, her arms were intertwined with the ship’s captain, a handsome Italian, somewhat shorter, dapper and doll-like. She was in full flow: effusive, warm, overwhelming.
“Miss Winters–” And she turned with the ready smile she always had for a baritone voice. “I think I have a part for you.” Her eyes twinkled. “The project doesn’t have a name yet, but we already have Red Buttons and Ernest Borgnine and an ad campaign. Tag line: Hell Upside Down. What’dya think?”