"You actually spanked him?" asked Neely.
"He was a bad, bad boy," said Jillian, eyes gleaming, while both eyebrows went up.
Rica started fanning herself with her pad. "Syd, can you turn up the air in here?"
I got up and moved toward the thermostat. "Okay, I guess we'd better get started with the interviews."
* * *
"It occurs to me," said Neely, pulling her chair up to the table, "that this is just like a reality show. We are lined up here at this table, facing a single chair in the middle of the room and we'll rank each contestant on a scale. The winners move on, the losers skulk out or throw fits. We ought to put a reporter in the outer office to interview them as they leave."
"I wanna play the British judge," said Jillian. "They always have some guy from London on the panel, who says something like, ‘Your performance tonight was just ghastly' with that accent, before they send the poor sap on his way."
"That might be a line you should save for the hotel," I said.
"I hope I never have to use it," said Jillian. "You guys ready?"
"Let's rock," said Rica.
I punched a button on the intercom.
"Yes?" said the receptionist.
"Start sending them in," I said. I turned to the girls. "Remember, the code word for gong is doable."
They nodded. The door opened and a tall, very beefy man in his mid-twenties entered the room. "Good morning," he said, brushing his wavy dark hair out of his eyes. "I'm Brian Fairfield. I'm an actor and model here in New York."
And you're a model for… let me guess… Michelin Tires?
"Good morning, Brian," I said, gesturing toward the chair. "Please have a seat and tell us about yourself."
He moved toward our table and handed each of us a manila envelope, then sat down. "I brought each of you a portfolio from my agency. I've been doing print ads for quite a while, though I did audition for a television commercial last week. I'm hoping to break into TV."
I slid the portfolio out of the envelope and opened it.
One side featured a full eight-by-ten headshot of the model, a beautifully lit photo that had obviously been air-brushed or Photoshopped or whatever. It didn't look anything like the guy sitting in front of us. The piercing blue eyes in the photo weren't nearly as dark in person. The other side featured three photos from different ads. He wore a tux in one, a bathing suit in another, and a sports jacket in a third.
He also looked like he'd gained a good bit of weight since the pictures were taken. The face was much fuller now, the beginnings of a second chin evidently having cancelled out the jawline that was so prominent in the photos.
"How old are these photos?" asked Rica.
"About three years," he said. "I, uh, haven't had a gig in quite awhile."
"Do you think reading a teleprompter is something that's… doable … for you?" asked Neely, accenting the code word for my benefit.
"Sure," said the man.
"Thank you," I said, getting Neely's vote. "We'll be in touch."
The man's head dropped, he exhaled audibly and a sad look grew on his face. "Ohhhh… kaaay. Well, thank you for your time, I guess." He got up and left the room.
"That didn't take you long," said Jillian. "You could have at least asked him a few more questions."
"He'll be a doughboy in two more years," said Neely. "If he wants to break into TV he can get a gig selling crescent rolls. Why waste time with him?"
"I still like gong better," said Rica.
The parade continued, with plenty of hot damns and exponentially cutes sprinkled in the mix with those who looked closer to their driver's license photos than the ones in their portfolios. We got into the spirit of the chase by getting creative with the code word when we needed to gong someone.
From Rica: "I'm sure an anchor position might be doable if you spend three years behind the scenes. We do have some entry-level gopher jobs." (The guy left skid marks.)
From Jillian: "I'd be curious to see how you'd look if you dyed your hair bright red. Would that be doable?"
From Neely: "As we say in the South, if it's doable, it's worth doin' right."
By noon we were almost done and had at least nine viable candidates. And that wasn't counting the people with actual television experience who were flying in later.
Then the door cracked open and the man who entered seemed to suck all the oxygen out of the room.
About six-three, with ripped arms straining at the sleeves of his baby blue, short-sleeved polo shirt, while his pecs tried to escape the fabric. Thick, dark brown hair, deep-set hazel eyes, square jaw, slightly crooked boyish grin that led you to believe he was up to something. If there was such a thing as a cross between hot damn and exponentially cute, this guy was it. "Hi, Denton Hale," he said. He handed me a DVD, resume and portfolio, then grabbed a chair and took a seat.
"Denton, I'm Sydney, and this is Rica, Neely and Jillian." (Incidentally, you should know that even though I didn't expect any gongs, I do retain supreme veto power in extreme circumstances. Just in case one of them loses her mind.) I opened the portfolio and had to fight to keep my eyes from bugging out as the pictures jumped off the page. After about ten seconds I heard this clicking sound as Rica's fingers tap danced across the table and deftly snatched the portfolio and dragged it down the table, where Jillian and Neely leaned over to take a look at the man who didn't appear to have a visible flaw or an ounce of fat.
"Those are from my print ads this year," he said. "The DVD has my television work. Mostly exercise equipment infomercials and some voiceovers. You might have seen me if you're up in the middle of the night."
I popped the disc into the player and the monitor filled with Denton Hale extolling the virtues of a new home bodybuilding system. I assume he was pitching the thing, because I never actually heard the words. I was too busy locked on a glistening body that had been cut from suntanned marble by Michelangelo. I looked down at the girls and knew there would be a battle later on to decide who Denton Hale would get to bench press at the Plaza.
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