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Hollywood in the early 1930s: audiences flock to the cinema to forget breadlines, hobos, and Black Tuesday. And one dog is here to help….
“No.” Again, Pierce cut McKenney off. “Not that one. We set up lights on that dog. We see that dog in the distance. We see that dog at night. That dog’s a lemon.”
“They’re all purebred police dogs, Mr. Pierce. They have the same—”
“That one.” He jerked his head at Rebel. “We’ll use him today. By tomorrow, our star better be back in business.”
McKenney swallowed. His eyes darted to Rebel in the box. “He’s only for fight scenes. He might not be safe to work around your actors. Wolf can—”
“‘Wolf’ does not look like my star. That one looks at least fundamentally like my star.” Jabbing his finger at Rebel’s box.
Rebel tensed, watching the hostile motion with narrowed eyes.
“You guaranteed me a performance and I want one. They’re setting up now. Get the ugly one down there and let them fix the lights. Then I want that one in position in half an hour. Got it?”
“But, Mr. Pierce, Rebel doesn’t know the part. He does take-downs. He thinks he’s only here for action scenes—”
“I don’t care if the dog ‘thinks’ he’s riding in a goddamned spaceship to the moon. He’s playing ‘Shadow, Wonder Dog of the Movies’ or his contract, your contract, and Mr. Bowers’ contract, will be terminated. Do I make myself clear?”