Never Say Sty (2 page)
Authors: Linda O. Johnston
“I’ll think about it. Okay, now you’ve got my full attention. Start over.”
A second of irritated silence, and then, “I’ll keep it short, so you’ll get it. Everyone loved the concept of a reality show starring animals. Remember?”
“Absolutely,” I agreed. After all, it had been my idea.
I’m Kendra Ballantyne, attorney-at-law as well as professional pet-sitter. Because of my dual adored interests, I often take on law cases involving pets. That’s what had happened here. Disgruntled customers had sued my client, Show Biz Beasts, claiming they hadn’t made good on their promises to get their pets film industry auditions. As always, I came up with my own form of ADR—usually considered by lawyers to stand for alternate dispute resolution. In my case, it’s animal dispute resolution.
This time, it consisted of creating an idea for a possible TV reality show—and had gotten those persnickety plain-tiffs off our client’s case.
Plus, to my delight and sorta surprise, the concept was catching on where it counted. My friend and former tenant Charlotte LaVerne had been a reality show star, and was now a maven of that sector of the TV industry. Rachel, my pet-care assistant at Critter TLC, LLC, was also a wanna-be actress. The owners of Show Biz Beasts were absolutely intrigued with being associated with an actual reality show.
And so forth.
All we needed was up-front funds to get the show into preliminary production, and a little interest from a network. Well, actually, a lot of interest. Enough to give it a try for at least one short season. And—
“So Corbin and Shareen got a call from out of the blue,” Rachel was saying. They were my clients the Hayhursts, owners of Show Biz Beasts. “He’d heard about the show idea, we don’t know how, and he wanted to discuss it. See a session. You know.”
“He who?” I asked.
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, Kendra. That’s what’s so perfect.”
“Okay, then, tell me.”
“He’s hugely rich. And he’s really connected in all kinds of animal industries. He even owns HotPets.”
I finally knew who Rachel was ranting about. “Dante DeFrancisco?”
“Exactly. He’s interested in being executive producer and chief moneybags behind
Animal Auditions
. He loves the idea. And if anyone can put money into the show to make it successful, he can. Like I said, it’s perfect.”
Animal Auditions
. He loves the idea. And if anyone can put money into the show to make it successful, he can. Like I said, it’s perfect.”
Dante DeFrancisco was the Donald Trump of the pet industry. His chain of super-mega pet stores outshone all the competition. He had a reputation for backing animal rescue organizations, including groups that saved all sorts of wildlife.
And he was interested in our little reality show idea?
Wow!
Except . . . in some ways, Rachel could be right. It sounded perfect. But in my experience, something sounding perfect always led to trouble.
“Anyway, he’s on his way to the studio in Valencia. We’re going to give him a demonstration.”
“When?” My eyes darted from the words in the center of my computer screen to the digital time readout at its bottom corner.
“In an hour.”
Could I complete this initial draft of the brief that quickly, using any semblance of legal professionalism? It would take about forty-five minutes to drive there, and I had to ensure I’d get back in time to pet-sit . . .
“See you later,” I said to Rachel, hanging up and diving frantically back into my drafting.
OKAY, IT WASN’T the best brief I’d ever written. But I’d handed a hard copy to Borden for his preliminary review, with caveats—that’s legalese for covering one’s butt with warnings—and a promise I’d take his comments and combine them with my own careful cleanup first thing tomorrow morning. After all, it didn’t have to be filed and served until later that day.
So now I was in my ugly little rental car, chugging up the 5 Freeway toward Valencia, where Show Biz Beasts had its training facility. As always, there was plenty of traffic, so I had time to think. Which I did. Mostly about Show Biz Beasts.
I’d already rallied some of my entertainment industry contacts to participate: Charlotte and Rachel, and another law client, Charley Sherman—a retired animal trainer for Hennessy Studios. Along with the Hayhursts’ and my input, we’d put together a dynamite concept for a delightful reality show.
People would enter their pets, and those chosen would work on training them in a specific scenario. Initially, we’d attempted to complete each concept in one show and choose a champion, but that soon seemed too rushed. Instead, as in many reality shows, the test would now continue for several weeks. Some contestants would be booted off after each episode for lack of skill or popularity. The last animal standing would take home a grand prize yet to be determined, perhaps a role in some upcoming show on the network that aired our auditions.
I finally got off the freeway, inching along behind a bunch of slow vehicles in the direction of the warehouse area housing my client. Soon, I turned into the driveway behind the long, low stucco structures. Building B was home to Show Biz Beasts. I parked and slipped inside.
The entry area was, unsurprisingly, empty. The day’s activities had begun. The place was a typical waiting room, à la a vet’s office, with a beige tile floor, neutral-hued walls, and pseudo leather seats. But I wasn’t about to sit there. Normally, people had to be buzzed in, but I happened to know where that button was. I slid the glass window into the receptionist’s area ungently aside, then leaned over and groped till I found it. I pushed it and was rewarded by a loud click. The door to the inner sanctum slid open.
I scurried down the hall till I reached the large room where the training and auditioning had occurred before. No knocking necessary. I just walked in.
The place looked like a typical sound stage, or what I, with my lack of show biz background, had come to assume one looked like: a large room with high ceilings that could be decorated to be nearly anything. Rows of portable lighting. A sort of musty smell.
And in the middle was exactly what I’d anticipated: lots of people milling around a set. Many sat on chairs at the edges, holding their dogs’ leashes. Among the dogs were a Chihuahua, a German shepherd, and two other dogs of sizes in between, neither of whose heritage I could exactly identify; one was furry with a pointed muzzle, and the other was short-haired with a blunter nose. Some participants from our first sample show were also in attendance, including the litigious bichon frise’s owner, sans attorney.
I didn’t see the Show Biz Beasts mascot, Dorky, or his usual handler, Larry, but entering that brilliantly trained dog in today’s test festivities would definitely distort the results.
Corbin Hayhurst stood in the center of the stage. He had a pudgy face that seemed as wrinkled as his yellow shirt. His jeans hugged his thick thighs. “Okay, listen up,” he was saying. “Our test scenario for today involves a pretend emergency. We’ll act as if this is an actual show we’re filming. Our staff”—he pointed to the people at the fringes of the set, including Charlotte, Rachel, and Corbin’s wife, Shareen—“will vote on who does best. Of course, this is just a demonstration, but you’ll get to see how it goes.”
Corbin faced a participant, the one with the German shepherd. I looked more closely—and saw that this was one handsome dude. Those around him were ordinary mortals with unkempt hair and clumps of wrinkles. But he sat tall. His hair was dark, wavy, thick, and all there. His chin was strong beneath well-defined cheekbones. And that mouth. Rather, that wry grin—he appeared to be having the time of his life, perhaps enjoying a joke that no one else got.
And then I got it. My suspicion was confirmed an instant later when Corbin said, “Like I told you, Mr. DeFrancisco, some of these people have brought their dogs in for lessons before, so you may want to try Wagner out on the scenario once or twice.”
“Not necessary, Corbin,” said Dante DeFrancisco oh, so smoothly. “But thanks for the offer. Wagner will take his licks if he can’t cut it, just like any other dog here.”
“Okay, then. Here we go.” Corbin turned to a guy I didn’t recognize who stood next to a cameraman and jabbed his finger in a gesture that seemed to mean “Do it.”
“Fire!” that fellow yelled.
Immediately, chaos ensued. The Chihuahua stood and barked and attempted to drag her hefty owner offstage.
The furry middle-sized dog and the bichon both just looked around, as if bewildered at all the sudden activity.
The medium short-haired pup leaped toward a wastebasket in the corner of the set that appeared to be smoldering. Had he been trained to pick it up and drag it far from vulnerable people? Looked that way, since that was what he did.
But the German shepherd was the dog that got all my attention. He rose fast and glanced at his owner. Dante nodded and said, “Fix it, Wagner.”
So he did. Wagner ran to the wall of the set and leaped into the air, knocking to the floor what looked like a big, red fire extinguisher. Wagner grabbed it by a woven black strap, carrying it to Dante and offering it up to him.
Dante did as his dog directed, grabbed the extinguisher, and went through the motions that would have directed foam from the contraption into the seemingly smoldering wastebasket that the other dog had moved. Wagner gave a final, excited jump, then sat down and watched his master expectantly.
“Good dog.” Dante DeFrancisco bent down to pat his dog’s head. And then the guy looked directly at me, as if awaiting my approbation.
Well, hell, how could I do otherwise? I hurried toward them and dropped to my knees at Wagner’s side. “You’re a hero,” I told him, giving him a big hug. Maybe not the best idea with a dog I’d never met before. After all, some German shepherds are taught to attack strangers. But Wagner simply lolled out his large tongue, then rewarded me with a big slurpy kiss on the cheek.
I stood. “You’ve got quite a dog there, Mr. DeFrancisco. He’s wonderful.” I held out my hand. “I’m Kendra Ballantyne.”
He looked at me with that same amused expression in his dark, dark eyes as he clasped my proffered hand and held on, instead of shaking it. “I know,” he said.
Okay, he could have been acknowledging what I’d said about his dog. But I somehow sensed otherwise.
He knew me. But how?
And why did that send shivers of anxiety and anticipation through every synapse in my suddenly quivering body?
Chapter Two
SHOW BIZ BEASTS had a perfectly nice inside office we could have borrowed for our conclave. But did we?
Nope, because big shot Dante DeFrancisco wanted a fresh cup of coffee. Not one brewed right there at the beastly facility, either. Instead, he loaded Charlotte, Wagner, and me into his sleek silver Mercedes and drove us to a nearby chain coffee shop. Now, we sat outside, Wagner at our feet, where the entire world of other patio drinkers could eavesdrop on our negotiation.
Gee, do I sound peeved?
Well, there was no sense blowing a perfectly plausible business opportunity for my friends, clients, and business associates just because a guy with mega power decided to rub it in our obviously eager faces. Instead, I assumed my most professional lawyerly cool.
“I’m sure you’re aware I’m an attorney,” I said to him as I sipped my luscious and rich café mocha. Charlotte had ordered a decaf caramel coffee concoction. Wagner had a bowl of water lying beside him on the sidewalk. And Dante sipped a grande-size espresso, no milk or other frothy flavorings, with those full lips that now irked me with their frequently cynical smile.
“Yes, I know of your reputation, Kendra,” Dante said, which made me all the madder. Was he telling me he was well aware of that embarrassing situation a while back, when I was unjustly accused of an ethics violation and temporarily lost my law license? “You’re becoming well known in the pet community for helping people resolve their differences amicably—like with your clients, the Hayhursts.”
Oh. Of course he could have known of my ADR that resulted in the pet reality show idea. And as a pet mogul himself, owning all those wonderful HotPets stores, he undoubtedly kept up on anything else interesting in the animal community.
Not that my small animal dispute resolution triumphs were trumpeted everywhere. Still . . .
“I doubt I’m becoming well known,” I said. “And I bring up that I’m an attorney only because it makes sense for you to have your lawyer present, too, in any negotiation about your proposed financial backing.”
“I know your ethics require you to disclose that,” he said. “And if necessary, I’ll sign something that says you did in fact warn me. But I’m perfectly capable of negotiating my participation myself, and my team of lawyers knows that. They’ll help us paper the deal once we’ve settled on terms. First, let’s talk about my requirements.” Uh-oh. I preferred his untrustworthy smiles to the unyielding stare of his deep brown eyes.
And his assertion of requirements strongly suggested they weren’t subject to negotiation. But, hell, I’m a lawyer. Lawyers always negotiate to improve their clients’ positions. Or at least attempt it.
“Fine,” I said with a chilly grin of my own. “Tell us what you’d like, and then we’ll discuss what you’ll get.”
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