"Aren't you the lucky one," Mrs. Rosenblatt sighed. "I simply adore that man. I ever tell you about my third husband, Alf? Died on the living room sofa watching Jeopardy! Peaceful as could be. I didn't even notice until Pat Sajak came on. Had Trebek not been so handsome, I mighta noticed sooner."
I blinked at her. I had no response for that, so I turned to Dana. "How's the pilot coming along?" I asked.
Dana popped a breath mint into her mouth. "It's going well, but geez, I'm beat. I had to be on the set at four o'clock this morning. These long days are killing me."
Dana's pilot was an updated take on the original 1970s Charlie's Angels series called Charlotte's Angels. Only, with the girls in charge, these women were at least ten times tougher than Charlie's threesome had been. Dana portrayed Charlotte Benson, a private eye with a checkered past trying to make good by cleaning up the world of bad guys. She kicked, punched, and clawed her way through every scene until she got her man. It had to be difficult taking on six-foot, three hundred-pound guys while in skintight jeans and spiked heels, but somehow the Angels always managed.
"Stand by. Testing," a male voice boomed through the speakers above us.
My mother leaned across me and nudged Dana. "Did you know that Angela Gold is in contestant row with Fernando?"
Dana's eyes widened. "Really? Who's the other celebrity?"
A man with a goatee and glasses sitting in front of us turned around to answer. "Doggy Z is the other contestant."
"Shut the front door!" Mrs. Rosenblatt yelled so loudly that everyone around us stopped talking to stare at her. "He's my favorite rapper!"
"Since when do you listen to rap?" my mother asked.
"What? It's the music of the people."
"Your people play bingo at the Jewish Community Center," Mom pointed out.
Mrs. R waved her off. "I'm a woman of the world."
"You're making a scene," I mumbled as conversation was slow to resume around us.
"I take that as a compliment." Mrs. Rosenblatt smiled.
"Look, the contestants are coming out." Mom pointed down at the sound stage.
Faux Dad took his place behind the first podium, and Mom practically bounced in her seat. He was wearing a purple blazer with sparkles that looked like he'd borrowed it from Elton John. His dyed black hair was sleeked back with gel, and his skin looked slightly darker than usual, probably thanks in part to the thick stage makeup. He glanced into the audience, as if searching for us. Mom started to wave until I placed my hand over hers.
"Maybe we shouldn't distract him," I said.
She nodded. "Good point. He needs to get in the zone."
Angela Gold appeared next and took the middle podium as several people in the audience clapped and cheered. She nodded coolly at Faux Dad. Angela was slim, tall, and graceful, with long dark hair that flowed behind her in soft waves. She was dressed in a red silk dress with matching stilettos and had a steely look in her eyes, as if she'd been in the zone for hours already.
"She's ready to do battle," my mother said, voicing my own thoughts.
"Bring it on," Mrs. Rosenblatt declared.
A slim man with pallid coloring wandered onto the set and paused, staring at Faux Dad and Angela with a confused expression on his face. He looked to be only a few inches taller than my own 5'2", and he had on baggy beige khakis, an untucked plaid shirt, and gleaming white sneakers, which all looked oversized and sagging on his thin frame. The deep lines around his eyes said he was at least in his fifties, even if his wardrobe looked borrowed from a teenager. His short, dirty blond hair stood on end, he was unshaven, and he looked half asleep. After a few seconds, he walked over to Trebek's podium and stood behind it. The audience made cat calls and laughed.
A woman's voice from behind us echoed through the studio. "Yo, Dog!"
Several people in the audience began barking. Dog raised a hand in salute.
"They used to do that at all his concerts when he was on tour." Mrs. Rosenblatt giggled. "Isn't it cute?"
Dana winced. "Adorable."
The stage manager appeared as a male voice boomed through the speakers again. "Quiet in the audience during taping, please. Anyone causing a disturbance will be removed for the duration of the show."
While the stage manager tried to direct Dog to his correct podium, a tall man in a dark navy suit hurried toward them. I wasn't sure who he was, but his hair was sparse and more salt than pepper and his face was contorted into an expression of annoyance. As soon as he reached Dog, he started speaking rapidly and gesturing with his hands in a way that did not look happy. Dog frowned, shooting a response back, before the man grabbed Dog's arm and half dragged him to a corner.
Mrs. Rosenblatt leaned forward. "That Doggy Z has such a wicked sense of humor. Ever hear his track 'Dog's Gotta Wee Bone'?"
Thankfully, no. In fact, I knew very little about him, other than having heard his name now and then on celebrity news channels. Usually in conjunction with some legal scandal. "Isn't he British?" I asked, trying to remember.
"Scottish," said Goatee Guy. "He pioneered bagpipe rap."
"Bagpipe rap?" I asked.
"Don't knock it till you try it," Mrs. R said. "The way he blows a pipe will blow your mind."
Goatee Guy pointed at a young man sitting kitty-corner from us on the aisle end. "That's Doggy Z's son over there."
We all craned our necks for a look. The man was attractive, in his early twenties, and dressed in a well-tailored black suit the color of his hair. While Dog could have easily doubled for the guy panhandling outside the studio, his son looked like he'd stepped straight out of a boardroom, with broad shoulders and a square jaw. A young woman about the same age was sitting next to him. She was a pretty blonde with shoulder length hair, wearing a sleeveless pink dress that showed off her tanned skin. They had power couple written all over them.
"He doesn't look at all like his father," Mom mused.
"Poor kid," Mrs. R said, shaking her head as Goatee Guy turned back around in his seat. "Got none of that Dog swagger."
"Well, I for one think Dog's lyrics are obscene," Dana remarked. "They're totally offensive to women."
Mrs. Rosenblatt scoffed. "Nonsense. His 'Doin' It Doggy Style' is a classic."
"See what I mean?" Dana said, giving me a knowing look.
I nodded as I watched the stage manager trying to show Dog how to use his buzzer. While it had only taken him a minute to show the other contestants, Dog seemed mystified by the item.
"Is that man high?" Mom asked, squinting down.
"Now, that's a little judgmental," Mrs. R jumped in.
"I think Dog just tried to lick the buzzer," Dana pointed out.
"Okay, so maybe the man takes a little toke now and then. What's the harm? It ain't illegal no more," Mrs. R said, wagging a finger at me. "In fact, I even saw a commercial for his own special blend during his cooking show."
"Cooking show?" I asked, glancing at the man who seemed to be swaying slightly on his feet. He looked more like the eating-raw-cookie-dough type than a gourmet.