Chihuahua Confidential (8 page)

Jimmy G was hard to miss. He always dresses like a forties detective cliché. And today was no exception. He wore a pair of two-toned brown-and-white loafers, tan slacks with cuffs, a houndstooth sports jacket with extra-wide lapels, and a brown fedora, tipped to a jaunty angle over one eye.

“Hi, doll,” he said, giving me the once-over. “Jimmy G almost didn't recognize you in that funny-looking, fuzzy-wuzzy costume you're wearing. What are you supposed to be? A big rabbit?”

“A dog,” I told him.

“Well, not too many women would admit to that,” he said. He added a “Ha-ha!” since I didn't laugh at his joke.

Jimmy G glanced down at Pepe. “I see the rat-dog's with you as usual.”

Pepe responded to the insult with a growl. (I was always amazed when he made actual dog sounds instead of speaking.)

“Same back at ya,” my boss told Pepe before turning his attention back to me. “Jimmy G had a tough time getting in here to see you.” He pointed at Shelley, adding, “This hard-nosed broad kept trying to send me to a different soundstage.”

“They're remaking
Kiss of Death
on Soundstage 12,” said Shelley. “I thought you were one of the extras.”

“Hey, do you think there's any chance of that?” Jimmy G's face lit up. “Might as well get a little camera action. When in Hollywood, do as the natives do!”

“You'd have to ask them,” Shelley said with a sour face. She turned to me, clutching her clipboard. “You're not supposed to have visitors on set unless you notify me in advance. So I can't allow this guy to remain.”

“I'm sorry,” I said. “I didn't know he was going to show up here. How did you find us anyway?”

Jimmy G gave a snort. “Whadda ya think? Jimmy G's a private eye. Tracked you down!” He seemed mighty proud of himself. “So where's this package?”

Oh, the package. I had completely forgotten about it. “It must be around here someplace,” I said. “I gave it to Rodney for safekeeping.”

“Who's Rodney?”

“Rodney Klamp. He's the assistant to the assistant to the assistant director. But I haven't seen him today. Where is he?” I turned to Shelley.

“He never showed up this morning,” said Shelley.

“So this guy who's disappeared is the last person who had Jimmy G's package?” Jimmy G was getting agitated. “He probably stole it.”

“Why would he do that?” I asked. “What was in it, anyway?”

“Jimmy G's not at liberty to say. It's important, that's all. Very important.”

“We can look around for it,” I told him.

“No, you can't!” said Shelley. “You're supposed to be onstage in five minutes. We're on a very tight schedule.”

“Do you know how to get a hold of this Rodney character?” Jimmy G asked Shelley.

She shook her head. “No.” She gave Jimmy G a shove. “Now, you! Get out of here! And, you two!” She pointed at me and Pepe. “Onstage! Now!” She stormed away, clutching her clipboard.

“Jimmy G has to find this guy,” said our boss, his big brown eyes rolling.

“You could try him at his house,” I said. “We were there last night. Well, not really his house, but where he's staying.” I dug the Map of the Stars out of my purse and showed Jimmy G the location of Nigel's house. As he took off, I heard him mutter, “Nacho, damned Nacho.”

 

 

Our second performance went a little more smoothly than our first. Rebecca announced us as “
L.L.
Cool Geri” and “L'il Dawg,” and I slid ever so comfortably into character. Pepe and I punched and kicked through our hip-hop routine, gaining confidence and energy as we danced. I crouched down and he jumped over me. I did imagine all the fire hydrants as we did our side leg lifts in perfect unison. Then he crouched down and I jumped over him. The audience howled.

When L'il Dawg and I finished and took our bows, even the judges went wild. The audience was on their feet, and I thought I saw Jimmy G in the front row.

“You rocked it,
L.L.
Cool Geri!” said Pepe.

“So did you, L'il Dawg!” I said, giving him a low five.

Miranda gave us a ten, Beverly gave us a nine, and Caprice gave us an eight. Her comment: “Although the routine was cute, I've seen better dancing at my parties.” Still our score was high enough for us to bump Siren Song and Luis out of their current spot in first place.

We headed to the interview room to wait for the results, which were disappointing. The poodle Max, who had danced last, got a perfect score and came in first, acing us out by only one point. Siren Song had taken third place.

Then we went back through hair and makeup. By the time we got into our street clothes—jeans and a tank top for me, fur for Pepe—the set was almost deserted. The lights were low as we picked our way toward the glowing exit sign.

As we approached the door, I saw a shadow peel itself away from the wall. For a moment, I was frightened. After all, we didn't know who had killed Nigel St. Nigel. But then I realized it was Ted Messenger.

“Hi, I was waiting for you,” he said. “I wanted to compliment you. You did great tonight. I know you'll be able to take the lead again.” He held open the door so we could walk out. The sky was bright after the darkness of the soundstage.

“Thanks!” I paused and shaded my eyes so I could see his face. “You know, I should warn you that I talked to Jake, the Animal Safety Representative, and I think, because of something I said, he might show up for the morning rehearsals.”

“So?”

“That might be a problem for you.”

“It might be,” said Ted. He didn't seem concerned. “But I might not be there in the morning, anyway.”

“Oh, that's too bad.” I kept my tone light, though I was disappointed. “I was hoping we would get a chance to work with you again.”

“Geri, I think you should ask this dude out!” said Pepe.

“Why wouldn't you be here tomorrow morning?” I asked Ted.

“The choreography bit isn't getting me the access I need to all the dogs. I've got to find another way to roam freely around the set.”

We were heading down the alley between the soundstages, toward the parking lot. A guy carrying a plastic tree over his shoulder walked by us.

“He might have seen something outside the soundstage that will help us figure out who murdered Nigel,” said Pepe.

“Have you heard anything more from the police?” I asked.

“No. I assume my lawyer has that all under control. Have you heard from him?”

“No,” I said, but then I remembered my cell phone might be at the bottom of Nigel's pool. Maybe it was ringing underwater.

“But what did he see?” asked Pepe.

“Do you remember seeing anyone around, right before you picked up the gun?” I asked.

“Are you still sleuthing?” he asked.

“Sleuthing? What sleuthing?” I asked with a little laugh.

We had reached the parking lot, and I didn't see the town car that usually took us back to the hotel.

“I've seen you talking to everyone,” he said. “You're trying to figure out who killed Nigel, aren't you?”

“Of course we are,” said Pepe. “We are detectives!”

“Well, if I did find anything,” I said, “I would tell the police.” Then I realized that might sound like a threat to the guy who was a suspect. “But we haven't. Found anything, that is.”

“Cute, how you keep talking about your dog as if he is your partner,” said Ted.

“I am her partner!” said Pepe.

He saw me looking around the parking lot. “Do you need a ride back to your hotel?”

“I would love a ride,” I said.

“Great!” He pointed out his car: a sleek, black Jaguar convertible.

“Sweet!” Pepe said when he saw the sporty car. “I call shotgun.”

“How does an animal activist get a fancy car like this?” I asked as I settled into the passenger seat. Pepe sat on my lap. Felix would have insisted that he ride in the back, but in a convertible, what did it matter? If we got into an accident, Pepe would fly out of the car like a furry football. The thought made me grab him tighter.

“I get paid well for what I do,” said Ted absently as he exited the studio lot and nosed the car out into the L.A. traffic. “Have you had much time for sightseeing since you've been here?”

“Not really,” I said. “We've been too busy. Dancing and sleuthing.”

“Well, I think you should see some iconic L.A. sights. How about a trip to the beach?”

“Sure, we'd love that!” I said. “Wouldn't we, Pepe?”

“I do not enjoy the beach,” said Pepe. “The sand gets between my sensitive toes.”

Everyone in L.A. seemed to be heading west. Santa Monica Boulevard was a sluggish river of cars. But Ted seemed to know what he was doing. He turned left, zigzagged through a series of curving streets lined with oleander hedges, and eventually we popped out onto a wide boulevard. The ocean lay before us, a heavy gray mass exhaling white-topped waves. Ted pulled into a parking lot, and we climbed out of the car.

We passed an outdoor area where muscle-bound men were working out and past a vacant lot filled with booths that were selling colorful T-shirts, and kites, and sunglasses. We headed north up a winding boardwalk, dodging roller skaters and cyclists. A brown-skinned man in a white turban skated up to us, playing an electric guitar strapped to an amplifier on his back. His pale blue eyes were portals into some fantastic world.

“Harry Perry,” said Ted. “Everybody knows him.” He veered off the path and onto the sand, heading toward the water's edge. Sand filtered in through the spaces in my sandals, and I stopped and peeled them off. Pepe was not happy. He lifted his little feet high in the air, grumbling the whole time.

Ted got far ahead of us. I could see his lanky form, his long lean legs in those tight jeans. He faced the ocean with his arms spread and put his head back so the light fell on his upturned face. It was such a private moment I wanted to turn away, but then he spun around and came racing back to me.

“Isn't this glorious?” he said.

I could see what he meant. The sun was setting over the sea, and there was a path of gold, right in front of us, sparkling on the water. But as I looked around, my mood darkened. The sand was littered with trash. And a gang of ugly seagulls huddled a few yards away, shrieking at Pepe. They looked big enough and mean enough to carry him off. The breeze was brisk, throwing stinging sand in our faces. Very few people were sunbathing, but the surfers were out, in wet suits, slipping and sliding down the surfaces of the waves.

“Did I tell you about how I learned to surf?” Pepe asked.

I shook my head.

“It was with Caprice,” he said. “She had to learn to surf for her role in
Beach Baby,
and she took me along to her lessons. I can hang twenty with the best of them.”

“How did you learn to surf if you're afraid of the water?” I asked.

“I'm not afraid of the water,” said Ted, coming over to me.

But Pepe did not respond. Unusual. I wondered if I had finally caught him in a lie, and then I wondered if all his stories were lies. Maybe he needed to make himself look big by making up these fantastic tales because he was such a little dog.

“Let's sit here,” said Ted, drawing me over to a spot on the sand. He spread his jacket out on the sand. We hunkered down, and he flung his arm around me, I think to warm me up because it didn't seem like a romantic gesture.

The sun turned bloodred. I shivered and Ted drew me closer. Pepe managed to wriggle in between us and planted himself so that my leg would not brush up against Ted's, all without saying a word, remarkable for him. He continued to gaze out at the sunset as if he were meditating.

“What about you?” I asked Ted. “Found any evidence of dog abuse?”

Ted stiffened. “It might sound funny to you, but it's not amusing to me. Dogs don't exist to entertain us.”

“But there's a system in place to make sure they're not being abused.”

“I'm not talking about that,” said Ted. “We treat them like servants. But they are beings with their own cultures. Do you know that whales pass along their favorite songs? And elephants mourn their dead. And dogs know when another member of their pack has died, even over a great distance. They are sentient beings. They have things to teach us, if only we could listen.”

“See!” said Pepe. “You are lucky I am around to teach you!”

That began a long rant in which Ted envisioned a world where even rivers and trees had rights and lawyers represented them in court when they were threatened with being covered over or chopped down. It was quite a vision and I enjoyed it.

As Ted was waxing poetic, Pepe took off chasing the seagulls that had been gathering around us like a crowd of creepy stalkers. The light was going out of the sky, and the surfers left the water one by one.

“You never told me about how you got involved in PETA,” I told Ted when he stopped to take a breath. “You started to tell me once.” Pepe came back, having driven the seagulls back, and sat in my lap.

“Oh,” Ted said, and he stiffened. “It was something that happened when I was in college. I was a psych major, and I got a work study job in the Psych Department. I was pretty excited, as you can imagine—a job in my field—but my job was to feed the chimpanzees. They were using them for research, trying to determine how isolation and sensory deprivation affected behavior. Chimpanzees are highly social animals. They need interaction. I wasn't even allowed to look at them or talk to them. Just push a lever that dropped food into their cages.” He stopped for a moment and stared out at the ocean.

When he started speaking again, his voice was thick with emotion. “One of the chimps wasn't eating, and I complained to my supervisor. He didn't do anything about it. I complained again and again, but they were just excited about finally having results they could measure. The chimp died. Of starvation. I was the one who found him, just a heap of skin and bones, his eyes glazed. I lost it. I stormed out of there and called a friend who introduced me to Barbara, the woman who started PETA. She's such an inspiration. . . .” His voice trailed off.

Pepe wriggled in my arms. “Did I ever tell you about how I refused to be in an experiment?” he asked.

“What happened?” I asked.

“We planned and carried off a perfect action. We liberated all those chimps, found them good homes, got on the news, started a swell of publicity and protests that ended in the department changing their policy on animal experimentation. It was a big story.”

“I refused to allow them to plant some sort of monitoring equipment under my skin,” said Pepe.

“Weren't there repercussions?” I asked.

“Yes, I was then shipped off like a prisoner with a bunch of other dogs,” said Pepe, “though I had done nothing wrong.”

“Well, I lost my job, got expelled from school, and went to jail.”

“That's pretty serious.”

“I know, but it brought me to you,” said Pepe.

“Wait a minute,” I said. “Are you talking about chipping?”

“What?” Ted was confused.

“I just wondered what you thought about chipping?” I asked, staring at Pepe. Had he really been able to avoid being chipped? Then maybe he was Caprice's dog, after all. Or maybe he avoided being chipped at the pound in Seattle.

“Oh, I think it's inhumane. Would we do that to people?” Ted said.

“But it's so the animals can be returned to their owners,” I pointed out.

“Owner!” said Ted with a hoot of derision. “What a ridiculous name for the relationship between a human and an animal.”

“You see, Geri,” said Pepe, “I told you we do not use that term. We prefer
companion animal.
”

“Companion animal,” I mused.

“Even that is a subservient relationship,” Ted pointed out.

“I was thinking we were the companion animals,” I said.

Ted didn't get it for a minute. Then he threw back his head and laughed. I liked it that he seemed able to feel everything so deeply: the pain of the monkeys, the beauty of the sunset, the humor of a comment. “Very good, Geri!” he said, squeezing me. “Have you ever thought of joining PETA? We're planning a big action tomorrow.”

“Really? What?”

Just then, Ted's pocket began ringing. “Sorry!” he said, reaching into it and pulling out his phone. He looked at the number. “I've got to get this.” He got up and walked a short distance away. It was a brief conversation, consisting of “Yes,” and “OK,” and “Sure. I'll be there in a few minutes.” He came back over to me. “I've got to go. Important meeting. I'm sorry. I'd love to spend more time with you. Maybe tomorrow?” He was already helping me to my feet. I brushed sand off my jeans.

“Tell him you will have your people call his people,” said Pepe.

“I'll have my people check my schedule—” I began, then whirled around and faced Pepe, who was trotting behind us, doing his funny sand prance. “What are you talking about?”

“You have people?” Ted laughed.

“Yes, she has me,” said Pepe.

“My dog is my social secretary,” I explained.

“Well, if it's OK with him,” said Ted, “I'd like to spend more time with you.”

“She is busy,” said Pepe.

“He says I'm busy,” I said.

“Maybe if I bring him a treat,” Ted said. “I know what dogs like.”

“You do not know what I like!” Pepe was offended by the idea of being bribed. “Unless it is bacon.”

“He likes bacon,” I offered. We were back at the car, and Ted held the door open for me. Pepe jumped into my lap.

“No bacon,” said Ted. “I can't sanction killing anything that has a face. Do you know pigs are more intelligent than dogs?”

“I have changed my mind about him,” said Pepe. “No way are you going out with a guy who thinks pigs are more intelligent than
perros
.”