Get Real (2 page)

“Very realistic,” Doug said, approving. “Very nice. Totally on message.”

Looking over the pages at Doug, she said, “That’s writing.”

“It is not writing, Marcy,” Doug said, “for two reasons. In the first place,
The Stand
is a reality show, the cameras catching real life on the fly, not a scripted show with actors. The Finches aren’t actors,
Marcy, they are an actual family struggling to run an actual farmstand on an actual farm on an actual secondary road in upstate
New York.”

“But,” Marcy objected, “they’re saying the words we write, down here in the production assistants’ room, Josh and Edna and
me.”

“The Finches often,” Doug allowed, “follow our suggestions, that’s true. But, Marcy, even if they followed your suggestions
one hundred percent of the time, you still wouldn’t be a writer.”

“Why not?”

“Because
The Stand
is a reality show, and reality shows do not have actors and writers because they do not need actors and writers. We are a
very low-budget show because we do not need actors and writers. If you were a writer, Marcy, you would have to be in the union,
and you would cost us a whole lot more because of health insurance and a pension plan, which would make you too expensive
for our budget, and we would very reluctantly have to let you go and replace you with another twenty-two-year-old fresh out
of college. You’re young and healthy. You don’t want all those encumbrances, health insurance and pension plans.”

Doug’s secretary Lueen, a cynical youngish woman in training to be a battle-axe, stuck her head in the door and said, “Doug,
you got a party named Murch on the line.”

Surprised, Doug said, “She
did
call? I didn’t think she would.”

“A male party named Murch.”

“Oh, my God, the son! That’s even better.” Putting his hand on the phone as Lueen vacated the doorway, Doug said to Marcy,
“You’re a very good production assistant, Marcy, we all like you here, we’d hate to lose you. Just keep those suggestions
coming.” And into the phone he said, “Mr. Murch?”

“I don’t know about that,” said a voice much warier than Marcy’s. “My Mom said I should call you, make a meet. Me and a friend
of mine.”

“John,” Doug said, remembering that other name, smiling at the phone. Oh, this was going to be a thousand times richer than
The Stand. The Gang’s All Here.
“Your mother told me all about him.”

“He’ll be sorry to hear that,” Murch said. “For a meet we were thinking about now.”

Surprised, Doug said, “Today, you mean?”

“Now, we mean. Across Third from where you are there’s a sidewalk restaurant thing.”

Doug had often wondered who those people were at those tables on the sidewalk, one lane away from all those huge buses and
trucks; it would be like having lunch next to a stampede. He said, “Yeah, I know it.”

“Come on over, we’re there now.”

Oh, of course; that faint noise behind Murch’s voice was traffic. Doug said, “If you’re there anyway, why not come up to the
office? It’s a lot more comfortable.”

“We’re already settled in down here. Come on down.”

“Well—” Murch was clearly trying to control his environment, protect himself from the unknown. Didn’t he know there
was
no self-protection? Apparently not. “Okay,” Doug said. “How will I know you?”

“We’ll know you,” Murch said, which sounded ominous, and broke the connection before Doug could say anything more.

All right; let’s work this out. He called, “Lueen!” and when she appeared in the doorway he said, “Get me Marcy.”

She smirked, just slightly. “Your standards are slipping,” she said, and vacated the doorway.

Rising, Doug shrugged into the soft suede jacket he wore to the office at this time of year, then took a moment to wire himself,
with a radio-microphone in his shirt pocket and its receiver in a pocket of the car coat.

As he finished, Marcy appeared in the doorway, now looking like a frightened steroidal chipmunk, meaning she expected she
was about to be fired. “You wanted me, Doug?”

“Indeed I did. Do. Have you got your cell on you?”

“Sure.”

“You know that sidewalk café across the street.”

“Trader Thoreau, sure. I can’t afford a place like that.”

“I,” Doug told her, “am going to meet with a couple fellows over there. I want you to leave a minute or two after I do, go
down there, and get pictures of them both.”

“Okay, sure.”

“Be discreet, Marcy.”

She nodded, with a fitful smile. “Sure, Doug.”

“Nice clear pictures.”

“Sure.”

Doug headed for the door, patting the receiver in his pocket. “We don’t know each other,” he said.

“Oh, sure,” she said.

D
ORTMUNDER WAS DUBIOUS
about this. “What’s in it for us?” he wanted to know, employing the plural form of the motto on his (stolen) family crest:
Quid Lucrum Istic Mihi Est.

“Well,” Stan said, “according to my Mom, he’ll wanna pay us.”

“To let him make a movie of us boosting something.”

“That part can’t be exactly right,” Stan said. “We’ll just listen to what he has to say. Is that him?”

They had taken an outdoor table at Trader Thoreau along the line of black wrought-iron fence separating the dining area from
the pedestrian-and-vehicle area, which gave them an excellent view of the broad facade of the office tower across the avenue.
Out of those doors now had come a purposeful youngish guy in a tan jacket, who paused to peer across at this café, then looked
to left and right to see which intersection was nearest (neither), then struck off to his right.

“That’s him, all right,” Dortmunder said. “He’s wired. See him pat the pocket?”

“I see him.”

“I’ll keep him,” Dortmunder said.

“Good.”

Which meant Stan would keep an eye on that building entrance to see what else might come out, while Dortmunder followed Doug
Fairkeep’s progress to the intersection, where he had to stand fidgeting while he waited for the light to change.

“Fat girl in red.”

Dortmunder looked, and Stan was right. The girl was young and short and very nervous. Also, that shin-long red coat was too
heavy for this time of year, making her look more like a sausage than a person. She too started off to the right, then apparently
saw Fairkeep still stuck at the
DON’T WALK
sign, and veered around to hurry off in the opposite direction so abruptly that she knocked two other people out of their
orbits, though neither actually fell to the ground.

Meanwhile, Fairkeep’s traffic light had finally changed, permitting him to cross the avenue, and as he came nearer they could
see he was a pleasant-looking guy in his early thirties, with that kind of open helpful manner that people’s mothers like.
Which didn’t mean he was trustworthy.

Or particularly swift. He reached the entrance at the far end of the wrought-iron fence, then stood there gaping around, apparently
not able to figure out who anybody might be, until Dortmunder raised an arm and waved at him.

Then the guy came right over, big smile on his face, hand stuck out for a shake from several yards away, and when he got close
enough he said to Dortmunder, “You must be Mr. Murch.”

“In that case, I got it wrong,” Dortmunder told him. “I’m John. This is Murch. Siddown.”

Still smiling, Fairkeep put his unshaken hand away and said, “I’m Doug Fairkeep.”

“We know,” Dortmunder said. “Siddown.”

So Fairkeep sat down and said to Stan, “I had a very pleasant chat with your mother yesterday.”

“I heard about that,” Stan said. “Usually, she’s a little better at keeping her lip buttoned.”

“Oh, don’t be hard on your mom,” Fairkeep said, with a little indulgent smile. “She could tell I didn’t mean any trouble for
you guys.”

Dortmunder said, “What
do
you mean for us guys?”

“I work for Get Real,” Fairkeep explained. “We produce reality shows and sell them to the networks. Maybe you’ve seen some—”

“No,” Dortmunder said.

Fairkeep was almost but not quite hurt. “No? How can you be
sure
you never saw even—”

“John and I,” Stan explained, “don’t do much TV.”

“I do the six o’clock news sometimes,” Dortmunder allowed, “for the apartment house fires in New Jersey.”

“Well, reality TV,” Fairkeep told them, regaining the wind in his sails, “is the future. You don’t have these fake little
made-up stories, with actors pretending to be spies and sheriffs and everything, you’ve got real people doing real things.”

Dortmunder gestured at Trader Thoreau and its surround. “I got all that here.”

“But not
shaped
,” Fairkeep said. “Not turned into
entertainment.
”

Stan said, “Why doesn’t she come sit with us?”

Fairkeep looked at him. “What? Who?”

“Your friend,” Stan said, and pointed to where she lurked just outside the fence in crowded pedestrian land, being knocked
about by elbows and shoulders as she tried to pretend she wasn’t taking pictures with a cell phone. “The fat girl in red.”

For just an instant, Fairkeep turned as red as the fat girl’s coat, but then he laughed, open and cheerful, and said, “You
guys are something. Sure, if you want. Where is she?” Not waiting for an answer (because he obviously knew she would be behind
him to focus on the other two at the table), he twisted around and waved to her to join them.

She obeyed, but hesitantly, as though not sure she’d interpreted the gesture properly, and when she neared them Fairkeep said,
“Join us, Marcy. Marcy, this is John and that’s Stan Murch.”

Marcy perched herself on the leading edge of the table’s fourth chair, but as she opened her mouth to speak a waiter appeared,
harried and hurried but somehow with a smooth still inner core, to say, “For you, folks?”

Stan said, “We all want a beer. Beck.”

Fairkeep said, “Oh, nothing for me, thanks.”

“You’re paying for it,” Stan told him, “so you might as well take it.” He nodded to the waiter, who was anxious to be off.
“That was four Beck.”

Slap,
four paper napkins hit the table and the waiter was gone.

Stan said, “Marcy, let me look at that phone.”

“Sure.” She handed him the phone, and he smiled at her as he pocketed it.

Fairkeep said, “Hey—”

“While we’re at it,” Dortmunder said, “why don’t you give me that receiver now? It’s there in your right pocket.”

“My what?”

“The thing that’s recording us,” Dortmunder said.

Fairkeep bridled. “I’m not going to give you any company equipment!”

Stan said, “You know, we could get the same effect if we just throw you under that bus there.”

Fairkeep turned and looked at the bus. “It’s moving pretty slow,” he said.

Dortmunder said, “That could make it worse.”

Fairkeep thought about that, while Marcy sat and stared from face to face. Whatever was going on, she was pretty sure she
wasn’t qualified at this level.

Then all at once Fairkeep offered a broad smile, like the sun coming out on a previously cloudy day, and said, “You guys really
are something. Here.” Taking the little gray metal box from his pocket, handing it to Dortmunder, he said, “You don’t want
the mike, do you?”

“No need.”

The waiter returned then, to slap bottles and glasses and a check on the table. “That’ll be twenty-six dollars,” he said.

Fairkeep, about to reach for his wallet, reared back and said, “Twenty-six dollars!”

“I just work here,” the waiter said.

Fairkeep nodded. “Maybe I should,” he said, and put two twenties on the check. “I’ll need a receipt.”

“I know,” the waiter said, and sailboarded away.

Dortmunder said, “Cash? I thought guys like you always used credit cards.”

“Cash,” Fairkeep told him. “I leave a ten percent tip and put in for twenty.”

Stan laughed. “Doug,” he said, “you’re a desperado.”

“No,” Fairkeep said, unruffled, “but you guys are. Here’s what I’m offering, if I get an okay from you and an approval from
my bosses up above. Twenty thousand a man, plus six hundred a working day per diem. That’s for up to five men, and what you’re
selling us is permission to film you at work, doing what we needn’t go into in any detail but that which makes you of interest
to us. We would expect to be filming a few days a week for no fewer than six and no more than twelve weeks.”

Dortmunder said, “Filming us doing what we do.”

“That’s right.”

“What we do for real.”

“That’s why it’s called reality.”

“And then,” Dortmunder said, “you’re gonna show all this on TV.”

“That’s the whole point of it.”

“The part I don’t get,” Dortmunder said, “is the part where we don’t go to jail.”

“Oh, I know there’s gonna be a few problems along the way,” Fairkeep said, cheerily confident. “There’s always a few problems,
and we work around them, and we’ll work around the problems this time. Believe me, this one is gonna be easy.”

Dortmunder looked at him. “Easy,” he said.

“Compared to the dominatrix series we did,” Fairkeep told him, “this is a snap.
That
one was nothing but problems. And laundry.”

“So what we’re gonna do that you’re gonna make a movie of is break the law. I mean, break a bunch of laws; you never get to
break just one.”

“We’ll work around it,” Fairkeep assured him. “We got a great staff, crack people. Like Marcy here.”

They all contemplated Marcy. “Uh-huh,” Dortmunder said.

“So we’ll all kick it around,” Fairkeep said. “Beat the bushes, burn the midnight oil. You’ll bring your expertise, we’ll
bring ours. And you guys never have to go one step forward if you’re not comfortable.”

Dortmunder and Stan looked at each other, and Dortmunder knew Stan was thinking just what he himself was thinking: We don’t
have anything else. Twenty grand to playact with a bunch of clowns with cameras. Plus the per diem.

Dortmunder nodded at Fairkeep. “Maybe,” he said firmly.

“Me, too,” said Stan.