Walk on the Wild Side - By Karl Edward Wagner Page 0,128

course, Dane would never have committed such a blunder. Webley’s case—also modelled after Dane’s secret agent attache case, although Webley’s lacked the built-in machine gun—contained a bottle of Glenfiddich, his notes, cassette recorder, and camera. It was essential that he obtained some photographs of Miss Kent at home: since her appearance in the unfortunate Tiger Fists film, current photos of Elisabeth Kent were not made available. Webley had heard vicious rumors that the actress had lost her looks, but he put these down to typical show biz back-stabbing, and he prayed it wasn’t so.

He rang the doorbell, using the tip of his cane, just as Dane always did, and waited—posing jauntily against his cane, just as Dane always did. The seconds dragged on eternally, and there was no response. He rang again, and waited. Webley looked for a car in the driveway; saw none, but the carport was closed. He rang a third time.

This time the door opened.

And Alex Webley knew his worship had not been in vain.

“Hullo, Dane,” she said. “I’ve been expecting you.”

“How very good to see you, Miss Steele,” said Webley. “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.”

And she was Stacey Steele. Just like in The Agency. And Webley felt a thrill at knowing she had dressed the part just for the interview—just for him.

The Hollywood gossip had been all lies, because she hardly looked a day older—although part of that was no doubt due to her appearance today as Stacey Steele. It was perfect. It was all there, as it should be: the thigh-length boots of black patent leather, the red leather minidress with LOVE emblazoned across the breastline (the center of the O was cut out, revealing a daring glimpse of braless cleavage), the blonde bangs and ironed-straight Mary Travers hair, the beads and bells. Time had rolled back, and she was Stacey Steele.

“Come on in, luv,” Miss Steele invited, in her so-familiar throaty purr.

Aerobics really can do wonders, Webley thought as he followed her into her living room. Twenty years may have gone by, but if The Agency were to be revived today, Miss Kent could step right into her old role as the mod madcap Miss Steele. Exercise and diet, probably—he must find some discreet way of asking her how she kept her youthful figure.

The living room was a close replica of Stacey Steele’s swinging London flat, enough so that Webley guessed she had removed much of the set from the Hollywood soundstage where the series was actually shot. He sat down, not without difficulty, on the inflatable day-glo orange chair—Dane’s favorite—and opened his attache case.

“I brought along a little libation,” he said, presenting her with the Glenfiddich.

Miss Steele gladly accepted the dark-green triangular bottle. “Ah, luv! You always remember, don’t you!”

She quickly poured a generous level of the pale amber whisky into a pair of stemmed glasses and offered one to Webley. Webley wanted to protest that it was too early in the day for him to tackle straight Scotch, but he decided he’d rather die than break the spell of this moment.

Instead, he said: “Cheers.” And drank.

The whisky went down his throat smoothly and soared straight to his head. Webley blinked and set down his glass in order to paw through the contents of his case. Miss Steele had recharged his glass before he could protest, but already Webley was thinking how perfect this all was. This would be one to tell to those scoffers who had advised him against wearing his Harrison Dane costume to the interview.

“Here’s a copy of our latest issue...” Webley hesitated only slightly “...Miss Steele.”

She took the magazine from him. The cover was a still of Stacey Steele karate-chopping a heavy in a pink foil spacesuit. “Why, that’s me! How groovy!”

“Yes. From ‘The Mod Martian Caper,’ of course. And naturally you’ll be featured on our next cover, along with the interview and all.” The our was an editorial plural, inasmuch as Webley was the entire staff of Special Assignment.

“Fab!” said Miss Steele, paging through the magazine in search of more photos of herself.

Webley risked another sip of Glenfiddich while he glanced around the room. However the house might appear from the outside, inside Miss Kent had lovingly maintained the ambiance of The Agency. The black lights and pop-art posters, the psychedelic color schemes, the beaded curtains, the oriental rugs. Indian music was playing, and strewn beside the vintage KLH stereo Webley recognized early albums from the Beatles and the Stones, from the Who and the Yardbirds,