Chihuahua Confidential

by Waverly Curtis

  “You!” I said. “You sure get around! What are you doing here?”

  He glided over and held out his hand. “Shhh! You’ll blow my cover!”

  “What cover?”

  “I’m Eduardo Galliano, dance instructor, but you can call me Ed.”

  “I’m not going to call you Ed.”

  “You can call me irritated,” said Pepe. “Geri, you must tell Rebecca!”

  “You’ve got to help me!” he said, grabbing my hands.

  “But he’ll ruin our chances of winning the competition,” Pepe said. “I must win to impress Siren Song.”

  “But you’ll ruin our chances—” I began, and then stopped. Actually, that would be fine with me. Pepe might be disappointed if we got eliminated from the show early, but I wouldn’t. There were so many things I wanted to see in L.A.: the Los Angeles County Museum of Art, the Getty, the Museum of Jurassic Technology, Venice Beach. Maybe I’d even take Pepe back to his old haunts on Rodeo Drive and see if any of the shopkeepers recognized him.

  “I used to be a dance instructor for Arthur Murray,” said Ed or Ted or whatever. “That’s how I paid for college. If anyone can teach you to dance, I can!”

  “Did you major in dance?” I asked.

  “Psychology. Until I was put in charge of the monkeys in the research center—”

  “Focus, Geri! Focus!” Pepe snapped. “We are wasting time!”

  “I guess we should get started,” I said, giving in to my dog’s agenda.

  “Yes.” Ted’s face fell. He evidently wanted to share the story of his conversion to animal activism.

  “You can tell me later,” I said. I wanted to reassure him. “Right now, I’m worried about learning to dance. I’m a natural-born klutz. And I’ve never done the fox-trot.”

  “It’s not so hard,” said Ted. “Let me show you. It’s slow, slow, quick, quick.” He began gliding around the floor. “Just follow me.”

  I tried, I really did, but I kept pausing on one foot when I was supposed to be going forward and going quick when I was supposed to be going slow. Pepe, however, seemed to be doing fine.

  “Wow,” he said, standing back and watching us. “Your dog has rhythm!”

  “Sí, I can foot it as light as any fox!” said Pepe, picking up his little feet, lifting them high, and putting them down with delicate precision.

  “He looks just like a fox!” said Ted in an amazed tone.

  “Naturally, as I studied with the great Renard,” said Pepe proudly.

  “I suppose you are now going to claim you talk to foxes!” I said.

  “I would never claim that,” said Ted.

  “Of course I do,” Pepe said with pride. “Did you think my ability to communicate across species applies only to your species, Geri?”

  “I do not like your tone, mister!” I said.

  “I’m sorry if I offended you,” Ted said.

  “I’m not talking to you. I’m talking to my dog!” I explained.

  “Oh, and what’s he saying?”

  “He claims he learned to dance from a fox.”

  “I must say he’s very convincing as one,” Ted said, studying Pepe with a tilt of his head. “It gives me a great idea for the choreography. I was thinking of something traditional, a sort of Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire number, but now I’m thinking, what if we take the story of Little Red Riding Hood and pair her up with a fox instead of a wolf?”

  “What?”

  “Yes! A story! That will help you win the competition.” He plucked his iPod out of its dock and began poking buttons. In a few seconds, we heard the opening lines of “Lil’ Red Riding Hood,” as sung by Sam the Sham & the Pharaohs.

  “I think this dude has some good ideas,” said Pepe. “You can tell me what big teeth I have!” And he lifted his lips to reveal his tiny pointed teeth.

  “Your dog is such a ham!” Ted said. “He’s in character already. Here, let’s try this!”

  He put us through a series of dance movements designed to depict the rambling walk of Little Red on her way to Grandma’s (I was pretty good at the rambling walk) while Pepe skulked behind me, keeping a watchful eye. Then he ran ahead of me and preened himself as I alternately approached him and backed off, surprised by his big ears (Pepe does have big ears) and big eyes (Pepe does have big eyes) and big teeth (well, not so big but they look pretty menacing when Pepe combines them with a growl).

  Ted applauded as we completed the routine for the third time. “Your dog is a natural!”

  “Sí, I have won the heart of many a senorita with my suave moves,” said Pepe.

  “But you still need some work!” Ted said, turning to me. “Private lesson? Later tonight?”

  “I think not,” said Pepe, getting in between us. “We will be busy investigating. We have to catch a murderer.”

  Chapter 6

  After the rehearsal, we were transported in town cars to the soundstage. I’d never realized how many people were required to produce a television show. The soundstage, which had been so empty and dark and spooky the night before, was now swarming with activity. Rebecca took us around and introduced us. There were production assistants and an assistant to the producer, genny operators and crane operators and boom operators, focus-pullers and clapper-loaders, gaffers and grips.

  “I know what a gaffer is,” Pepe told me. “That is the hombre who gaffs the large fish and brings it aboard the boat.”

  “No, Pepe, that’s a different kind of gaffer.”

  “I beg to differ,” he said. “I have seen them gaff marlin on the charter boats off Cabo San Lucas many times.”

  “Don’t tell me you worked on a fishing boat?”

  “Sí,” he proudly stated. “I was a deckhand on the Coronado for Captain Cortez, the most famous of the fishing skippers.”

  “How could you have been a deckhand?”

  “Easy,” he said. “My job was to chase off the seagulls when they landed, trying to steal our bait. I was quick, efficient, and very menacing.” He bared his little teeth and growled. “Those birds never got any bait past this perro, I can tell you.”

  Rebecca also introduced us to a guy named Jake, a big redheaded man in a T-shirt and jeans who was an animal safety representative, certified by the American Humane Society. According to Rebecca, there had to be one on every set, to guarantee that the animals weren’t being mistreated. I wondered if that would assuage Ted’s concerns.

  There was also a veterinarian, a young woman named Alice who had big blue eyes and curly blond hair. She looked far too young to be a vet. They had given her a little space of her own, in the middle of the soundstage. It was furnished with a waist-high stainless-steel table and a rolling cupboard of supplies like one might expect to see in a vet’s office. She told Pepe he was a cutie and gave him a treat. He was totally smitten.

  According to Rebecca, the most important person we met was Shelley, the second assistant director, a young woman dressed in a black T-shirt and black jeans who wore her dark hair in a ponytail high on the back of her head.

  “Oh, you’re the Chihuahua couple!” she said when Rebecca introduced us. The staff hadn’t bothered to learn our names. They simply referred to us by the breed names of our dogs. It seemed the casting director had gone for diversity with one dog from many of the most popular breeds. “You’re supposed to be in wardrobe right now—then you’ve got ten minutes for your walk-through on-set.”

  We were on a ruthless schedule, and it was Shelley’s job to keep us on track.

  “Come on in!” said Robyn, the young woman in charge of costumes, as we entered her area. She had black hair and bangs chopped off right above her penciled-in dark eyebrows.

  “Red Riding Hood!” she called to her assistant, who plucked a red dress from a rack of clothes.

  Robyn had come to morning rehearsals to measure us and get a head start on the costumes. After a quick consult, we decided on a red silk dress, cut on the bias, to give me a forties look. I was amazed by how quickly her
staff had produced the garment. The dress fit like a dream. The skirt fluttered deliciously whenever I made the slightest move. It might even create the illusion that I could dance.

  “And for Pepe, the fox costume.” Robyn took a long, red foxtail off the rack. Long, puffy, and a perfect red-orange hue, it looked so real I could hardly believe it was made entirely out of feathers. “Let me put your dog on the table so I can get this fitted.”

  “What a good dog!” Robyn cooed as she worked on him. “And the tail fits him like a glove.”

  “That is a mixed metaphor,” Pepe responded.

  “Actually, it was a simile,” I told him.

  “Simile-schimile!” he snorted.

  Robyn set him on the floor. “Try wagging your tail for me, Pepe.”

  Pepe strutted over to the nearest mirror and studied himself, his tail twitching. “If I say so myself, I am muy foxy!”

  “I swear,” Robyn said, watching him, “I’ve seen all the dogs, and yours has the most personality. My money is on you two to win!”

  After our costume fitting, we headed to the main stage for our walk-through. Lighting technicians were making last-minute adjustments to some of the huge lights above the stage, and cameramen fiddled with the three big cameras that would film our show.

  The set was, as Pepe said, “magnifico!” The dance floor was shaped like a giant hexagon and covered with black rubber, to make it easy for the dogs’ nails to grip. We stood at the top of a set of stairs designed for grand entrances onto the dance floor.

  “Don’t worry, Geri,” Ted said, coming up behind me. “You’ll be fine!”

  Was it that obvious I was worried? And why wasn’t he? Security was high because of the protestors, and we all had to show our IDs at the gate. I wondered how Ted had gotten through security. Maybe he had a fake ID.

  “Let’s walk through the routine before we do it to music,” Ted said. We headed down the stairs.

  “Oh, look, there’s Jake!” I said, spotting the animal safety representative sitting in the front row of the audience. “He must be watching to make sure the dogs aren’t being asked to do anything that would be dangerous.”

  Ted whirled around and faced the back of the room, his head down. “Damn!” he said. “He can’t see me.”

  “Why not?”

  “He knows who I really am,” Ted muttered. “We were in a documentary, debating about the welfare of animals in the entertainment industry.”

  “Surely you’re on the same side!” I said. “You both want to protect animals.”

  “We do, but they don’t!” Ted said with contempt. “They’re just shills of the entertainment industry. They get paid to do this job by the very people they are supposed to be monitoring. That’s why I’m here. To make sure the job is done right.”

  “So what does this mean?” I asked.

  “It means you’re going to have to walk through the routine without me,” Ted said. “I’m sorry. Maybe I can arrange to have him distracted.” He headed back up the stairs, his head still down.

  I looked at Pepe.

  “Do not fret! I will coach you, Geri!” he said. And it was true; he knew the whole routine. We signaled the sound guy to turn on our music and went through the routine. Pepe slinked and I rambled, he did arabesques and I did pirouettes, and we even managed a few paws de chassez. Close to the end of the routine, someone came over and tapped Jake on the shoulder. He got up and hurried away. Then Ted appeared. He had apparently been watching from the back of the bleachers.

  “You did great!” he said, strolling down to the stage. “Let’s just review the last part.”

  “How did you get rid of Jake?” I asked.

  “Got someone to tell him there was a dogfight backstage. That got him going.”

  Ted walked us through the last bars of the routine, counting out the beats, until he came up with something he liked. Then we left the stage on our way to hair and makeup. As we made our way through the confusing warren of rooms backstage, Pepe suddenly stopped. “Say, is that not Senor Rodney over there? The personal assistant to el muerto, Nigel St. Nigel?”

  I spotted the guy he was talking about. Sure enough, it was Rodney. I would have recognized his spiky bleached-blond hair anywhere. “Yes, it is,” I said. “I wonder what he’s doing here.”

  “I think he is gophering again,” said Pepe.

  “Gophering?”

  “Sí. That is what personal assistants do, no?”

  Rodney spotted us and came hurrying over.

  “Hola, Senor Rodney,” said Pepe.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “I’ve got a new gig.” He grinned. “I’m the assistant to the assistant to the assistant director!”

  “That is some title,” said Pepe. “I do not wish to boast, Geri,” he told me. “But I began one rung higher when I started out with Captain Cortez. I was the assistant to the assistant deckhand. I was in line to become bosun’s mate by the time I left the ship.”

  I gave my dog a dirty look, then realized that Rodney hadn’t heard his crass remark. (When you’ve got a talking dog, it’s often easy to forget that nobody else can understand him.)

  “Congratulations, I guess!” I said.

  “Oh yes, it’s definitely a good thing,” he said. “I’m trying to learn everything I can about the film business. Rebecca agreed to take me under her wing. Meanwhile, I’m helping out here. One of the assistants didn’t show up today.” That made the second person who hadn’t shown up today. I wondered if I should be worried. “Speaking of which, do you know where I could find the Yorkie? She’s dancing after the border collie.”

  “No,” I said. We were not supposed to see each other’s numbers until the performance—I guess they thought we might steal moves.

  “Yorkie, hmmm?” Pepe mused. “I do not know that breed. What type of perro is she? Large, small, shapely, and scent-full?”

  “I thought your heart belonged to Siren Song,” I told my would-be Lothario.

  “Sí, it does,” he answered. “But I still have eyes and a nose, do I not?”

  “Oh, Siren Song,” said Rodney, glancing at his clipboard. “She doesn’t go on until later. Excuse me, but I’ve got to go find the Yorkie.” With that, Rodney hurried away before I could ask him for directions.

  But Pepe seemed to know right where to find the makeup station, a row of chairs facing a row of mirrors lined up against a back wall of the soundstage. How did he do it? I did not ask. He would only have told me that I was not a dog.

  Next to the makeup area was a grooming station for the dogs, complete with a stainless-steel sink with a nozzle and one of those stainless-steel tables with a hanging collar that fit over the dog’s neck to hold the animal still while the groomer used the sharp clippers.

  Pepe shivered, looking at the setup. “I do not need a bath,” he said. His tail was between his legs. Robyn had taken off the foxtail. We would put the costumes back on after our dinner.

  “You could use a bath,” I said. “You smell like a dog. And your toes smell like corn chips.”

  “If that is so,” said Pepe, “I do not know why you would want to eradicate such a pleasant aroma.”

  The groomer came over. He was a slight young black man, with long dreads that hung down his back. “I’ll take your little Chihuahua,” he said, bending down to pick up Pepe.

  “I am not a little dog,” said Pepe.

  “He’s not really a little dog,” I said.

  “That’s what they all think,” said the guy, who introduced himself as Reynaldo.

  Then I realized who he was. He had won the reality TV show that pitted dog groomers against each other to determine who was the best groomer in the country.

  “Hey! I watched your show!” I said. “You were great!” He had been the groomer who had the best rapport with the dogs. “You’re in good hands, Pepe,” I said as Reynaldo whisked him away and plunged him into a plastic tub of soapy water.

  While Pepe was undergoin
g this torment, I was led over to a chair in front of a mirror, which was torment for me. I never think I look good enough. My hair is too frizzy. My face too round. My lips too large.

  My stylist, Zack, a young man with a shaved head and fully tattooed arms, fluffed up my hair with his fingers and told me what he was going to do. “First a shampoo, then I’ll blow-dry your hair and use a little product to—”

  “Just make me beautiful,” I said, and closed my eyes and surrendered. To my surprise, he did. When I opened my eyes fifteen minutes later, I saw this pinup girl from the forties staring back at me. She had arched eyebrows, bright red pouty lips, and a smooth brunette pageboy with two gorgeous spit curls at the temples.

  “Wow!” I said. But I was even more impressed by Pepe’s transformation. Apparently after the bath, they had airbrushed his back and the top of his head with a reddish brown dye, leaving his underbelly white. I hardly recognized my dog.

  “Dios mio, Geri, you are linda! ¡Muy linda!” Pepe told me. Then he appraised his own appearance in the full-length mirror. “As for myself, the reddish tone is bueno, but the white belly makes me look like the two-tone loafers, Jimmy G, is so fond of. But I hope you know I am no kind of loafer! I will dance my tail off!”

  We didn’t have time to go to the commissary, so we browsed the craft service table that was over by the back door. I got a yogurt and a banana; Pepe was pleased when they offered him some sliced ham and cheese from the sandwiches. We ate outside, sitting on folding chairs. The sun was shining, but there was a cool breeze blowing. Still it was fun to watch people walk by and try to guess what show they were working on.

  We thought we saw a group of actors from the TV show Criminal Minds. Pepe was most impressed. He said that the FBI profilers would have solved Nigel St. Nigel’s murder before lunch, but alas, we didn’t have their kind of budget.

  Then it was back to the costume area with Robyn putting the final touches on our costumes when Rodney came bustling in carrying a large package: a small cardboard box wrapped in layers of duct tape.