by Al Ewing
Niles smiled tightly. “Probably one of the main influences on it. I never saw Austin Powers, myself.” He’d looked at the poster for the film and had the uneasy feeling that the film would have been laughing at him as much as the secret agent genre, and he’d never watched it to find out if he was right. “Anyway, they want to make a new Mr Doll film, and they’ve asked me to pitch. If they like what they see... well, they’ll get out the translation tube and I’ll be shaking hands with Dalton Doll himself.”
Bob took another long swig of his beer, eyeing Niles carefully. “I need to visit the bathroom,” he said, after a pause.
Niles blinked quizzically. “What? Why?”
Bob laughed. “Because I need to piss. Jesus, come on.”
Niles pouted, irritated at Bob’s reaction. He’d expected a different one – not awe, exactly, but congratulation, at least. For goodness’ sake, he was about to have a hand in the creation of a living being – one of Bob’s own! A little bit of awe wouldn’t go amiss. “You’re not changing the subject,” he said officiously. “I want to know what you think.”
“All right, fine.” Bob thought for a moment. “Okay, let me try and put it into words. What I said earlier about confronting our gods...” He paused, frowning. “I actually did know the guy who created me – on the writing side, anyway. A guy called Malcolm Stuyvesant – he was the head writer, they call it showrunner now, on the New Adventures. On Sea-Thru too, plus I think he wrote a few episodes of Buffy or Angel or one of those, but... the mid-’nineties were his time to shine. He’s not done too much since. Anyway, he’s the guy who wrote the series bible, the personality description, everything the technicians worked from. I mean, obviously when you’re translating a new Fictional, you put a little more thought into it than you do if you’re just making up a protagonist... right?” He looked at Niles pointedly.
Niles nodded briskly. “Oh, of course.” He didn’t like the implication that he hadn’t put a great deal of thought into Kurt Power. He knew everything there was to know about Kurt Power’s life, from his eye colour (a steely blue) to his favourite song (it varied) to where his daughter went to school (it varied).
“So this guy Malcolm, the lead writer... I got to know him pretty well. I mean, we worked together for as long as the show was on. He’d bounce ideas off me, let me ad-lib a line – towards the end, he was practically letting me co-plot the thing. He’d throw situations at me and ask me what my next move was, we’d write episodes that way. I wonder why more shows don’t do that.”
Niles smiled. The New Adventures Of The Black Terror wasn’t really his thing – it was a little too camp for his liking, and the whole premise of a costumed adventurer felt like a trope designed for pre-literate children – but he had to admit that every episode he’d watched had rushed along splendidly, and there’d never been any point where he thought Bob wouldn’t have said or done what was on the screen. Contrast the fifth season of Cutner’s Chair, in which the viewer was asked to believe Ralph Cutner was mesmerised by the romantic charms of a female patient who clearly bored him senseless – Niles could hear the raging arguments on the set between Ralph and the writer in question in every line of dialogue – and you did, indeed, start to wonder. Some people, Niles thought, just didn’t know how to use Fictionals properly. “So,” he said, taking a sip of his beer, “you had some filial feeling towards him?”
“I never said that.”
Niles blinked, confused. “But surely you thought of him as a father figure –”
Bob shook his head. “No, no. Jesus, Niles, I know what filial means. I’ve already got a father – Rex Benton. Criminologist, gunned down by racketeers, left me his secret lab, yadda yadda. I mean, he wasn’t real, sure, and he’s dead, but the guy was still my dad. No, Malcolm was my creator – my main one, I mean. There’s a big difference. That’s what I think you don’t realise.” He got up off the bar stool, towering over Niles. “He was a nice guy, but the thing is that we never really got on well – not outside of work, anyhow. As soon as the show finished, we pretty much stopped talking to each other... listen, I really need to go...”
Niles blinked. “Why?”
“Because my bladder feels like it’s going to explode. Back in a second.”
“No, I mean –” Niles started, but Bob had walked away, towards the toilets. On the way, he stopped to take a look at a flyer for something called META MEET – probably a band. Obviously not in that much of a hurry to pee, Niles thought bitterly.
He sighed, taking another sip of his pint, then looked over at the redhead. She was still looking at him, her head tilted, and he found himself risking a smile and a nod. There was something about her that was very striking – something about her hair and her eyes – but he couldn’t quite work out what. It wasn’t that she was beautiful, exactly – beautiful women were ten-a-penny in LA, and in that context she was nothing particularly special – but there was something in the way she held herself, in the retro clothing. Something oddly distanced – artificial, even. Every movement she made looked like a performance.
He suddenly realised he was staring, and shifted his eyes to the news report playing out on the TV above her head. The words SHERLOCK HOLMES MURDER leapt out at him. He nodded to the barmaid. “I’m sorry, can you turn that up a little?”
“– coming to you live from the scene of the murder.” A reporter in a dark suit was speaking to the camera in front of a pawn shop of some kind, as police attended to a taped-off area behind him. “We’re not sure what Sherlock Holmes – and to avoid confusion, I’ll reiterate that this is the modern-day Sherlock Holmes, the one whose new show finished its first season on HDI just a few weeks ago – we’re not sure what he was doing on Camerford and Vine exactly. There is a Subway here, he might have wanted to eat something – what we do know is that at around seven-twenty he was brutally struck from behind by an unknown attacker who, ah, crushed his skull with repeated blows from some kind of heavy object –”
The reporter was interrupted by the woman at the news desk. “I’m just going to stop you there, Phil – do the police have any idea of the motive for the attack? Why kill the new Sherlock Holmes?”
“It’s hard to say, Joanne –” The reporter looked around, as if trying to seek someone out. “It’s possible that the attacker might not even have known he was Sherlock Holmes. Remember, this was a modern incarnation of the character, so unlike most of the more, ah, historical Fictionals, he would have been dressed quite normally...” He seemed to catch sight of someone off-camera, and made a quick beckoning gesture. “Actually, we have some people here with ideas on that – Sherlock Holmes and, uh... and Sherlock Holmes. If I could just ask you guys to step over here a moment –”
Niles blinked as two more Sherlock Holmeses wandered into shot – one tall and thin, with a roman nose and the full deerstalker-and-pipe outfit, the other shorter, moustached, and looking altogether more pugnacious, wearing a loose-fitting shirt in a vaguely Victorian style. Niles recognised the second from recent movie posters – he was a more action-packed, violent Holmes, who’d been dreamed up by the Nestor Brothers studio to put a new spin on the mythos. He vaguely recalled another, earlier Holmes working as a consultant on that film – probably the taller one, who looked more like the classic model.
“Mr Holmes,” the reporter turned towards the shorter Holmes, before pausing to rethink the question. “Mr Holmes of 2009... I understand you’ve been discussing the situation with the investigating officers –”
“I have been discussing the situation with the officers,” the taller Holmes said in an icy tone. “My companion has been taking notes on the deductive process. Unfortunately the budget for his translation did not extend to inculcating him in utero with the proper degree of intelligence to apply my methods –”
“Steady on, old chap,” growled the shorter Holmes in a wounded tone. Niles noted that his accent had some American undertones – either poor programming in the voice, or an attempt to sway the US audie
nces.
“My dear fellow, each to their own,” the taller Holmes said, sucking contemplatively on his pipe for a moment before removing a magnifying glass from his cape and studying the asphalt beneath his feet. “Were we engaged in a situation calling for use of the fistic arts, or the commandeering of a runaway horse-and-carriage, I would gladly cede authority to you. But this is a matter of deduction and in such matters I remain your superior... ah!” The taller Holmes paused, bending down and studying the ground carefully for a long second.
The reporter opened his mouth to ask another question, but thought better of it as the taller Holmes rose to his feet again, holding what looked like a human hair. “Almost invisible against the tarmac. Sherlock, my good fellow” – he nodded to his fellow Holmes – “what do you make of this?”
The shorter Holmes peered at it, frowning. “A thread of some kind. Tweed, I’d say. Where do you suppose it came from?”
“First, consider the murder weapon. A large, heavy object, almost certainly metal, but also containing enough glass to provide the slivers we found by the body earlier. If we add that to the grains of pipe-tobacco we discovered on the dead man’s clothes...”
The shorter Holmes shook his head impatiently. “The thread, man! Where did it come from? A blazer, perhaps?”
The taller Holmes smiled paternally. “Who would wear a tweed blazer in Los Angeles in the middle of an unusually hot spring? No, my dear fellow, it’s quite elementary. In fact, I can answer you off the top of my head.” He calmly lifted off his deerstalker, holding it next to the thread. “You see? It could almost be from this one. It’s not, of course – the pattern is subtly different – and besides, you are my alibi.”
The shorter Holmes took a step back, staring in horror. “Holmes, you’re not saying the murderer is –”
“One of us, my dear Wat –” The taller Holmes hurriedly corrected himself. “My dear fellow. We have eliminated the impossible and what remains must now be the truth. The killer smoked a pipe, he wore a deerstalker hat, the murder weapon was a heavy magnifying glass – ergo, either he was engaging in a particularly outré means of throwing the police off his scent... or the killer was none other than Mr Sherlock Holmes.”
He turned back to the reporter, but the reporter was unable to do anything but stare.
“Jesus,” Bob said, and Niles realised that he’d returned from the toilet a minute or two before. He’d been so absorbed in the drama unfolding on the screen that he hadn’t noticed. He quickly looked around for the red-haired woman, but she was nowhere to be seen.
“It doesn’t seem real,” Niles said, taking a long pull on his pint. “It’s like a spoof broadcast. Insane.”
Bob chuckled dryly. “That’s what happens when you invite fictions into the world. They bring fiction with them. This isn’t much different from that Dexter Morgan business.”
“Well, they got to him in time,” Niles muttered. Bob gave him a sideways look. “What?”
“See, this is my point,” Bob said, choosing his words carefully. “I’m just wondering if you understand what you’re getting into. This isn’t some literary fantasy where you get to meet your own character and have a beer with him while he tells you how great a god you’ve been. Bringing someone imaginary into the real world isn’t a thing you can predict.” He pointed his bottle at the screen, where the reporter had finally recovered his wits enough to go back to the studio. Needless to say, the hunt for the killer Holmes was now the top story. “Look at this. Because somebody decided to translate me, even though there was already a ‘Bob Benton’ out in the world, we get this, this knock-on effect. And now we’ve got a situation where there are about fifteen different Sherlocks running around LA and one of them might be a killer. I guarantee that’s not how Malcolm and the rest of the bright boys at Nestor saw this whole thing working out.”
“We-ell...” Niles considered. “It’s not like there’s already a Dalton Doll. And if I make one, there aren’t likely to be any more...” He frowned. “So really, I’m not sure how this applies.”
Bob sighed. “I’m just saying that your actions are going to have consequences. The guy you invent is going to exist in the world – the real world, not just some movie where the worst thing that can happen is you get a bad review. I mean...” He pointed at the screen. “Let’s say Sherlock Holmes did just kill someone. I’m betting you can trace that back to some bad writing on somebody’s part. Whoever translated that guy is going to get lawsuits up the wazoo.” He hurriedly threw up his hands, noticing the look Niles was throwing him. “Not that I’m saying you’re a bad writer...”
“No, of course not.” Niles scowled. “Since when does The Black Terror talk about people’s wazoos?”
Bob smiled. “Well, there you go. Bad characterisation. Like I say, Niles, you’ve got to watch what you put in here.” He tapped his head twice, then turned and signalled the barmaid. “Same again over here, please.”
CHAPTER FOUR
From the screenplay for THE DELICIOUS MR DOLL (1966), by Hutton H Hopper & Jean-Paul Vitti:
INT. DOLL’S “PLEASURE PAD” – NIGHT.
DOLL opens the door to usher KITTEN into the room. She slips off her MINK COAT, holding it in the air until the AUTOMATIC COAT-STAND rises out of the floor and hooks it. Underneath, she’s wearing a very short, VERY low-cut MINI-SKIRT DRESS made from GOLD COINS and GOLD-EFFECT GO-GO BOOTS. We get a GOOD LOOK. Doll SMILES.
DOLL:
Somebody oughtta put you in Fort Knox, sweetheart.
KITTEN:
Fort Knox couldn’t afford me.
DOLL presses one of the studs on his WRIST COMMUNICATOR and a ZEBRA-SKIN LOVE SEAT lowers itself FROM THE CEILING.
DOLL:
I’ll bet. Take a load off those dynamite stems, baby - drink?
KITTEN nods. As she SITS, DOLL moves to the AUTOMATIC DRINKS CABINET.
DOLL:
One Old-Fashioned. Substitute White Horse for Bourbon, hold the cherry.
(He looks her over, particularly HER LEGS)
And a Pink Squirrel for the little lady.
A hatch in the device OPENS, revealing THE TWO DRINKS. DOLL takes them both, handing the PINK SQUIRREL to KITTEN.
KITTEN:
You know my drink. Impressive.
DOLL:
Some things you can tell about a woman.
KITTEN:
Oh? Like what?
DOLL:
Like maybe somewhere along the line she’s gotten her pretty head all filled up with a load of fancy doubletalk.
KITTEN:
And I suppose you’re just the man to talk me back around?
DOLL:
Baby, anyone who says lips like yours were made for talking is a grade-A, certified nut.
KITTEN:
You’re quite the charmer, Mr Dalton Doll... Agent Of Y.V.O.O.R.G. That’s right, I know a few things about you, too.
KITTEN reaches into her BEE-HIVE HAIR-DO and removes a SMALL BUT DEADLY PISTOL. She AIMS IT at DOLL.
KITTEN:
Don’t move an inch.
DOLL:
Until a moment ago, I was moving several. That’s a pretty gun for a pretty girl, but don’t think I won’t take it away from you.
KITTEN:
You’d be wise not to try, Mr Doll. A single explosive bullet from this gun can kill a charging bull elephant - I’d hate to waste one killing you.
DOLL:
Well, I’m kind of like an elephant myself - in the trunk department. Listen, sweetness, you’re playing a dangerous game here and unlike that dress, it’s way too big for you. Why don’t you quit now before I have to get tough?
KITTEN:
Don’t be a fool. You honestly think you stand a chance against the might of F.L.O.O.Z.Y.? You’re nothing but a worm under our heel – and just like a worm, you’re for the birds, Dalton Doll. Now - take off your clothes.
(She smiles, EVILLY)
I want to personally search you for weapons.
&n
bsp; DOLL:
(Hand moving to his CUFFLINK)
Start with this one, gorgeous –
He triggers the DART GUN hidden in his CUFFLINK and shoots a PARALYSING DART into her wrist.
KITTEN:
My arm! I can’t move it!
DOLL:
(taking the GUN from her)
That’s enough of that – now, talk! Where are F.L.O.O.Z.Y. holding the Dolly Birds? I know you’re up to your pretty green eyes in this caper, so spill!
(he SLAPS her, hard)
Come on, spill it! Talk!
(he SLAPS her again)
I said talk, sister! Tell me! Now!
(he SLAPS her again)
– at which point the phone rang.
THE FIRST THING Niles had done after coming home from the bar the night before was to download a copy of The Delicious Mr Doll,which he hadn’t gotten more than fifteen minutes into before falling asleep. The next morning, after breakfast, he decided to tackle it fresh, with his notebook in hand. He made a couple of vague notes during the credit sequence, a self-consciously psychedelic affair involving each member of The All Together playing their instruments over a flashing pastel-coloured background, but after that he’d become absorbed in the story – such as it was – and in his own memories of adolescence. The notebook lay forgotten on the coffee table in front of him.