shouldn’t have wriggled it in his face like that.”
Bobbi went into the lab to give the cameras to Wayne and I went into my office. It occupied a corner of the studio. The two interior walls were mostly glass, on which Hilly had pasted large cut-outs of tropical fish. I dumped Bodger, the old tabby who lorded it over the mice in the studio, out of the ergonomic chair I’d received as a gift when I’d left the Sun. As usual, he hissed irritably at me, so I fed him a couple of the cat treats I kept in my drawer in a futile attempt to regain his favour. He then curled up in a corner of the ratty old leather sofa opposite my desk and went back to sleep. I put my feet up and contemplated the photograph on the office wall, a night shot of the fifty-foot mural of the blue-jean-clad blond that had once adorned the south facade of the Hotel California on Granville, across Davie from my office window. The Hotel California was no more, replaced by a Howard Johnson’s. It wasn’t an improvement. At least I’d preserved the California girl for posterity. She was the stuff of fantasy, so I indulged myself for a moment or two, before putting my feet down and waking my computer.
At eleven Bobbi stuck her head into my office. I looked up from my computer, on which I had been preparing an estimate for a shoot, between hands of solitaire.
“Show time,” she said.
I coaxed Bodger off my lap, to which he’d relocated after cadging a couple more cat treats. He thumped to the floor with an offended mew. I stood and brushed at the cat hair on my second-best pair of khakis, straightened my collar, then followed Bobbi into the outer office. Beneath my feet I could feel the floor planking vibrate as the passenger elevator rattled and groaned up from the ground floor. A moment later, the door clanked open and a man emerged, dragging a cardboard box bungee-corded to a small hand truck with an extensible handle.
Willson Quayle was tall, well over six feet, slim and broad-shouldered and male-model handsome. He had a lot of thick, artfully tousled dark hair, and an easy, slightly lopsided smile that revealed perfect white teeth. His smile somehow never quite reached his eyes, though, which were a rich, chocolaty brown beneath craggy, immobile brows.
“Hey, Tom,” he said. His smiled widened, creasing his close-shaved cheeks but leaving his eyes untouched. “Mornin’, Barbie.”
“It’s Bobbi,” Bobbi said.
“Oh, god, is it? Geez, I’m lucky I can remember my own name sometimes. Sorry.”
“Yeah, okay,” Bobbi said.
“Just don’t let it happened again, eh?” He grinned. Bobbi glowered, but he didn’t seem to notice. He looked around the studio, as if sizing the place up.
“What’s in the box, Will?” I asked.
“Right,” Quayle said. He unsnapped the bungee cords securing the box to the hand truck, picked up the box, and carried it to the big table against the north wall of the studio. With a dramatic flourish, he tipped the contents of the box onto the table. “Ta-dah!”
A dozen or so garishly printed blister packs of varying size and shape spilled onto the tabletop. The larger packages contained action figure dolls. Some were human, startlingly female, dressed, if that’s the right word, in scanty sci-fi gladiator-like costumes, and armed with long pistols and short swords. The other action figures were creatures straight out of a nightmare, bipedal but grotesquely alien. I couldn’t tell if they were dressed or not, but all were equipped with harnesses hung with all manner of strange weaponry. The smaller packages contained more miniature weaponry, futuristic-looking handguns and rifles, as well as crossbows, swords, shields, and spears. Anachronism is alive and well in Toyland, I thought. The remaining packages contained additional costumes, obviously intended for the female action figures.
Willson Quayle selected one of the female figures and opened the blister pack. “I’d like to introduce you to Star,” he said, setting the figure on its feet on the table.
Although about the same size, height-wise, at least, as a Barbie doll, Star bore no resemblance at all to the willowy Barbie. Star was a squat, awesomely endowed creature, broad of shoulder, deep of chest, narrow of waist, and powerful of thigh, with straight, waist-length, coal-black hair and a fierce expression on her small face. Her costume, which didn’t look especially comfortable, consisted mainly of strategically placed faux leather straps and tiny silvery buckles.
“Of course, the physical proportions are somewhat exaggerated,” Quayle explained.
“No kidding,” Bobbi said, half under her breath.
Quayle opened another package and stood a second female figure beside Star.
“This,” he said proudly, “is Virgin, Star’s sidekick.”
Virgin was equally powerfully built and well endowed. She was dressed in a skimpy black vinyl outfit that might have been a cheerleader’s costume designed for Madonna. Or Barbarella. It consisted of a sturdy uplift bustier — it needed to be sturdy, given what it had to support, or would have, in a real woman, should such an unlikely creature actually exist — a sort of miniskirtcum-breechclout thing cut high on the hips, and knee-high boots. A Batman-like mask obscured the upper half of her face.
“Of the two,” Willson Quayle said, “Virgin’s my favourite.”
I thought I heard Bobbi groan, but it may have been my stomach growling. Personally, I respect a man who takes pride in his work.
“Have either of you seen Star Crossed?” he asked.
I shook my head and Bobbi said, “No.”
“It’s been described as Xena: Warrior Princess meets The Terminator,” Quayle explained. “Star and Virgin are time-travelling bounty hunters who have come to present-day Earth to track down and capture a group of evil shape-shifting alien outlaws. It’s quite original, sexier and more tongue-in-cheek than Xena. Very popular with the twelve-to-twenty-four demographic.”
“I can certainly see why boys like it,” Bobbi said. “Of all ages.”
“Actually, girls like it too. Star and Virgin are, well, quite liberated.”
“I bet,” Bobbi said.
“I’ll leave you some tapes,” Quayle said.
“Oh, goodie,” Bobbi muttered.
I jabbed her with my elbow. Quayle didn’t notice. He looked at his watch.
“She should be here any time now.”
“Who?” I asked.
His face did odd things, as though he were trying to raise his eyebrows, but they remained frozen in place. “You’ll see,” he said mysteriously. Willson Quayle busied himself setting up more action figures on the table, Star and Virgin in different costumes, and a selection of creepy alien outlaws, even more squat and powerful.
“Can I speak with you for a minute?” Bobbi said quietly. We went into my office. “I think we should send this bozo on his way,” she in a low voice.
“We need the work.”
“Not that bad.”
“Oh, yeah? Look, I know they’re kind of tacky, but a job’s a job.”
“Tacky
