Chapter 2
Pepe was quiet during the photo shoot, which was unusual for my blabbermouth of a dog. He did seem to know how to handle the publicity, though. He managed to work his way into the front of every picture; I did my best to stay in the background. Unfortunately, Caprice's little Papillon did not appreciate Pepe hogging the limelight. At one point, she snapped at him, which made Caprice chide her.
“Be nice, Princess,” she said, with a little wag of her finger. It made for an adorable photo. Even more so, when the paparazzi snapped photos of Pepe gazing up at Caprice with longing. I heard one of them say, “That Chihuahua has real star quality.”
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The little star was not so happy with our lodgings. While Rebecca swept Luis and Siren Song off to a bungalow by the pool, Pepe and I were ushered into a room on the fifth floor of the hotel at the end of a long hallway.
I thought it was rather charming, furnished with a shabby chic aesthetic that evoked the old days of Hollywood: faded gold satin draperies, a gilt-edged mirror on the wall across from the bed. But Pepe grumbled as he inspected the tiny bathroom and the contents of the small refrigerator tucked into a corner. According to him, he and Caprice had always stayed in the penthouse suite.
“Do you miss living with Caprice?” I asked, expecting an answer that would crush me.
“Oh no, partner,” he said with a straight face. “I far prefer our rather cramped and humble condo in chilly Seattle to living the life of luxury in Los Angeles.”
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Rebecca didn't even give us time to unpack before she herded us back into the limousine for a trip to the sound stage to check out the set. Caprice drove off in her low-slung convertible red Ferrari, saying she'd meet us at the studio.
“I remember that car well,” said Pepe. “I spent many happy days tooling around in that macho machine.” He sounded wistful.
“Perhaps you would rather ride with Caprice,” I said. I couldn't stop myself from sounding sulky. I was flashing back to my childhood and arguments with my sisters about who would ride in the front passenger seat. Being the one riding beside Mom or Dad meant they loved you best.
“Not if it means being in the same car as that diva,” Pepe said. For a moment, I hoped he was talking about Caprice, but then I realized he was probably referring to Princess. “Anyway, a Hummer limo suits my style.” He jumped up onto the back of the seat and curled up behind me, where he could see out the window and keep an eye on his true love, Siren Song, who was snoozing on the seat beside Rebecca.
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In Seattle, if you drove down the street in a Hummer limo, most people would stop and stare. (Some of them might even throw eggs.) In L.A., no one batted an eye as our long white limousine cruised down the crowded streets.
“What is all that racket?” asked Pepe, as we turned down Santa Monica Boulevard. We had made slow progress through the mid-afternoon trafficâsometimes it took three lights before we could proceed through an intersection.
“I don't hear anything,” I told him.
“You are not a dog,” he said matter-of-factly. He had made that statement more than once since we'd been together, and I sometimes wondered if he was just stating a simple fact, or if he was being patronizing: like someone explaining a complicated theoretical formula, and when you say you don't understand it, they say, “Well, you're not an astrophysicist.”
“I believe we are approaching the cause of the disturbance,” said Pepe, craning his neck forward as our limousine slowed down. “It appears to be a protest.”
“What?”
“
SÃ,
a protest,” Pepe continued. “Many people carrying signs and yelling and blocking our way.”
The limousine had come to a complete stop as it attempted to turn right into a driveway. There was a little booth at the edge of the sidewalk and behind it a barred gate. The archway above the gate read
M
ETRO
L
AND
S
TUDIOS
. A
few people were marching back and forth on the sidewalk, carrying signs that read N
O
DOG SHOULD DANCE
! and S
TOP CANINE SLAVERY
.
“What's going on?” I asked.
“It must be that damned PETA!” said Rebecca.
“What does the Greek bread they use in making gyros have to do with any of this?” Pepe asked me.
“It's not that kind of pita,” I told him.
He gave me a quizzical look.
“This is
PETA
,” I explained. “People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals.”
“Oh,” he said. “Well, that is a good thing, is it not?”
“Not in this case,” I told him. “I think they might be trying to stop us from doing
Dancing with Dogs
.” I turned to Rebecca. “Why are they doing this?”
“They think making dogs dance is cruel and unusual,” she said.
“Why would they think that?” Pepe asked.
“I can't believe they organized this fast!” Rebecca said.
“Did you know this was going to happen?”
“Oh, we started getting threats as soon as the
Hollywood Reporter
mentioned we were going to begin filming. These people are fanatics!”
The chauffeur pulled as far as he could into the driveway, and we could see the demonstrators better. Most were in their twenties. Some of the young women were almost nude and had painted their bodies to make them look like Dalmatians and springer spaniels. They wore dog collars around their necks with leashes dangling down.
“I must say I like their costumes,” said Pepe thoughtfully. “You should try that, Geri. I think it would be a good look for you.”
“I guess my publicist is worth the money I'm spending on her,” Rebecca observed.
“You arranged this?” I asked, aghast.
“Publicity is publicity,” Rebecca shrugged. “Look!” She pointed out the window. I saw a TV cameraman and a reporter thrusting a microphone toward the young woman whose lithe body was painted white and covered with the black spots of a Dalmatian. “We'll probably make the evening news.”
The chauffeur was talking to the guard in the booth and in a few minutes, the gate slowly slid open and our limousine began to ease through it into the studio.
As we passed through the demonstrators, they shook their signs like so many leaves in a storm. The messages were weird:
D
OG IS
G
OD SPELLED BACKWARDS
! and L
ET MY ANIMALS GO
! and Y
OU'RE REALLY DANCING FOR DOLLARS
! and P
EOPLE ARE ANIMALS, TOO
! and
E
AT
T
OFURKEY, SAVE A
T
URKEY
! The strange mix of slogans made me wonder if they'd brought some signs that were left over from a previous demonstration.
“What is a Tofurkey?” Pepe asked me. “Is it better than turkey? I very much like turkey.”
“I'll get you one later,” I promised him.
“Yum!” he said. “A new taste treat!”
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The studio was quite impressive. There was a tall office building, which Rebecca explained was used for interior shots, like the office scenes in
Mad Men
, plus it also contained the studio offices, some editing suites, and a café where we could get lunch.
“We were lucky there was a sound stage available here,” Rebecca said as the chauffeur pulled up in front of the building. “Unfortunately I couldn't get the one with the in-stage pool.”
“How would we have used that?” I asked.
“I thought it might provide a nice twist. We could have had the dogs perform some synchronized swimming,” Rebecca said.
Pepe shuddered. He has a fear of water that he claims comes from being thrown into a swimming pool by one of Caprice's friends.
“The only problem is the tight schedule,” Rebecca said. “We have to be in and out of here in a week.”
“Look at all the
caliente
cars!” said Pepe, checking out the parking lot. “And there! That is Caprice's car parked ahead of us.” He pointed to the red Ferrari parked in a handicapped spot.
“Are the other judges meeting us here?” I asked Rebecca.
“Yes, all three of them. I want to do a run-through, just to see if the setup works. That way they won't have to come back until we start filming tomorrow afternoon.”
“Who are the other judges besides Caprice?”
“Oh, didn't I tell you? I've lined up animal psychic Miranda Skarbos and Nigel St. Nigel.”
“Nigel St. Nigel?” That was quite a coup. Nigel St. Nigel had been the mean judge on the popular
So You Wanna Be a Star
show for four seasons. Then he disappeared. No one was sure why, although there were many rumors.
“Yes, we have to have one mean judge. Otherwise, the show won't work.”
I shuddered, already anticipating his scathing comments.
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We transferred to an electric cart to get to the sound stage. Apparently they restricted the number of normal cars and trucks on the lotâthe vibrations of too many heavy machines could rattle lights and wobble cameras.
As we rolled along the asphalt, down a narrow alley between the sound stages, I began to enjoy myself. The sun on my skin felt good after weeks of Seattle's gray skies and constant drizzle. Puffy white clouds floated in a sky the exact color of a sky blue crayon. Pepe seemed happy, too, with his tongue hanging out of his mouth and his eyes closed.
The sound stages resembled the hangars where Boeing builds its jets in Seattle. They were made of corrugated steel, painted dull beige and punctuated by red doors with numbers on them. We didn't see any other people, just empty carts parked outside the doors. One could imagine all the fantastic worlds going on inside. I would have to Google MetroLand and find out what shows were currently being filmed here.
Our sound stage was number thirteen. I thought the number was ominous, but Rebecca didn't seem fazed.
She tried the knob and it turned. “I guess one of the judges must have gotten here before us,” she said.
The inside was cavernous. The ceiling towered overhead, laced with grids of metal and dripping with cables and ropes. The walls were painted black, which gave the impression that we were standing in infinite space. A little light came in through the open door illuminating a swath of concrete floor that was cluttered with snaking cables, but beyond that was only a dense velvety blackness. A few exit lights glowed green. They seemed to be miles away.
“Hello? Is anyone here?” Rebecca called out. Her voice died away. She sighed, exasperated. “Where are the lights?” She fumbled around on the wall for a switch.
Suddenly a light flickered in the darkness. Ahead of us, like an apparition, a stage appeared. The floor was a dull black but it was surrounded by a white plastic surround that cast an eerie glow in the dark space. A flight of glittery stairs, also lit from underneath, led down to the dance floor between two bright red fluorescent fire hydrants.
“Oh, it's just as I pictured it!” said Rebecca, with a little gasp of admiration. “Our set designer did a great job.”
“I think the fire hydrants are a mistake,” said Pepe. “A dog is a creature of instinct, and when I see a fire hydrant, it is not dancing that comes to mind.”
Rebecca hurried towards the stage, with me and Siren Song and Pepe following close behind. As we got closer, I could see that there were bleachers for the audience members rising up on either side of the stage and a sort of booth in front of the stage for the judges. A man sat in one of the judge's chairs, gazing out at the stage.
“Nigel? Is that you?” Rebecca asked. He did not respond. But then no one really expected that of him. He was known for his long silences during which the contestants would squirm.
“Wait, Geri!” said Pepe, coming to an abrupt halt. “Something is wrong! Do not go any closer.”
Rebecca reached his side and put out a hand to tap Nigel on the shoulder.
“I'm so honored to be working with you, Nigel,” she said.
And then she began screaming. Ignoring Pepe's frantic attempts to stop me, I ran forward, just as Nigel St. Nigel toppled sideways and fell into a pool of blood on the floor.