Donald Westlake - Get Real

“I’d wanna see this OJ,” Manny Felder said.

Stan said, “Why? If you’re not gonna use it.”

“I gotta get the feel for it,” Felder said. “Whatever I make, I gotta make it so when you’re in it it’s the place that looks right for you.”

“This OJ,” Ombelen said. “What is it, a bar?”

“We use the back room of a bar,” Dortmunder told him. “It just looks like the back room of a bar, with a table and some chairs.”

“But Manny’s right,” Ombelen said, as across the way the elevator/platform rose noisily into view, and stopped. Once its racket ended, “We would need,” Ombelen explained, “the feel of the entire place, the ambience, the bar itself, the neighborhood, the customers. There must be a bartender. He’s an important character.”

Kelp said, “That doesn’t work. We can’t let you have Rollo.”

“That’s the bartender?” Ombelen shook his head. “Not a problem. We’ll cast that.”

Doug said, “Maybe a good spot for some comic bits.”

“But,” Ombelen said, “we’ll have to see what the original looks like, so we know how to do our casting.”

“Agreed,” Doug said, and turned to the others. “We’re not gonna use anybody’s real name, or any thing ’s real name, so your OJ will stay private, it’s yours. But Manny’s right, we’ve got to see it.”

The three exchanged glances, frowns, minimal head-shakings, and then Dortmunder said, “All right. This is what we do. We give you the address and you go there—maybe tonight, it’s better after dark—and you look around, maybe take a picture or two. But not suspicious or sneaky, not like you’re from the state liquor authority. No conversations. You go in, you buy your drink, you drink it, and get outa there.”

Felder said, “What about this back room?”

“You do it, only by yourself,” Kelp told him, “You can take all the pictures you want back there.”

“That’s good, Andy,” Dortmunder said.

“Thank you.”

“All right,” Felder said. “How do I get to this back room?”

“The johns are down the hall from the left end of the bar,” Dortmunder said. “Nobody can see you back there. At the end of the hall is a door on the right. That’s us.”

“Easy,” Felder said.

Stan said, “But only one of you guys goes. We don’t want everybody running into the men’s room together, it isn’t that kind of joint.”

Doug said, “Understood. We’ll probably go tonight. I take it you won’t be there?”

“Absolutely not,” Dortmunder said.

Doug looked around at his creative team. “Is there anything else?”

Felder looked unsatisfied. He said, “Any more settings?”

“Manny,” Doug said, “I don’t think so. Just generic Manhattan streets, apartments.” To the others he said, “You all live in apartments, right? In Manhattan?”

Again they exchanged troubled looks. This time, reluctantly, Stan said, “I live in Canarsie.”

“But that’s wonderful!” Doug said, and Ombelen too lit up in a way that the name “Canarsie” doesn’t usually evoke.

Stan said, “You can’t use it, it’s just where I live, it doesn’t have nothing to do with nothing.”

“But you come to Manhattan for the heists,” Doug said, eyes bright with pleasure. “Stan, you commute!”

“Yeah, I guess. I never thought of it like that.”

“But that’s good,” Doug said. “Gives us another demographic. The burglar who commutes to his job.”

“I like it,” Ombelen said. “I could do some very nice visuals with that.”

Doug peered at them all with his freshest, most bright-eyed face. “Anything else? Any little details I should know?”

“I don’t think so,” Dortmunder said. “In fact, I know so. No.”

“Well, this has all been very good,” Doug said, and actually rubbed his hands together. “We’re moving along here. I’ll be back in touch when we’ve got something to show you. And meanwhile, see if you can decide what exactly you’re gonna steal. That’s Manny’s other setting, and he’ll need to know it pretty early.”

“One little favor,” Felder said.

They looked at him. Dortmunder said, “Yeah?”

“Nothing too dark, okay?” Felder spread his hands, looking for understanding and assistance around here. “Somewhere where we can see what you’re doing.”

Kelp laughed, mostly in amazement. “You know,” he said, “usually, everything we do, what we’re trying for is just the reverse of that.”

DOUG FELT BUOYANT all the way uptown from Varick Street, cheered by the meeting with The Roscoe Gang (tentative), cheered by the way Roy Ombelen and Manny Felder had immediately seen the potential, and cheered by Babe’s genial manner when he’d left them. Then, the instant he stepped into the office, he sensed something was wrong, and all his mellow mood was instantly flushed away.

What was it? The atmosphere was somehow not its usual self; his antenna tingled with it. He headed straight down the hall toward Lueen, to ask her what had broken down and how much it would spoil his day, but then he saw, in the production assistants’ room, Marcy and Edna and Josh, the three nonwriters, all huddled together, whispering, apparently in a state of shock.

Writers whispering together; never a good sign. Entering their room, Doug said, as though cheerfully, “Hello all. What’s up?”

The three young faces that turned to him were bleak. Marcy said, “It’s Kirby Finch.”

Kirby Finch was the younger son of the family running the farmstand, a strapping handsome boy, nineteen, known to the viewers as a fun-loving cutup. This year he’d be finding a girlfriend, a warm little G-rated romance to keep the audience numbers up. Doug said, “What about Kirby Finch? There wasn’t an accident, was there?”

“Worse,” Josh said. His eyes were wide, and his voice seemed to be coming from an echo chamber.

“He says,” Marcy explained, “he doesn’t want to do all that stuff with Darlene Looper.”

Josh said, “He just saw next week’s script, and he says he won’t do it.”

“Oh, come on,” Doug said. “Kirby shy ? I don’t buy it.”

Marcy said, “It isn’t that, Doug.” She seemed reluctant to spell out what the problem was.

“I’ll tell you,” Doug said, “ I wouldn’t kick Darlene out of bed.”

“Kirby would,” Marcy said, and the other two sadly nodded.

Doug said, “Does he have a reason ?”

“Yes,” Marcy said. “He says he’s gay.”

“Gay!” Doug made a fist and pounded it into his other palm. “No! We shall have no gay farm boys on The Stand ! Who gave him that idea, anyway?”

Marcy, on the verge of tears, said, “He says he is gay.”

“Not on our show, he isn’t. In the world of reality, we do not have surprises. Kirby has his role, the impish younger brother who’s finally gonna be okay. No room for sex changes. What does Harry say?” Harry being the father of the Finch family.

Josh shook his head, with a weak apologetic smile. “You know how Harry is.”

Not an authority figure; yes, Doug knew. Whatever they want is okay by me, you know? So far, that had been a plus, meaning there was never any argument with the producers’ plans for the show. Except now.

Marcy said, “I think Harry has the hots for Darlene himself.”

“No, Marcy,” Doug said. “We aren’t going there either. This is a clean wholesome show. You could project it on the wall of a megachurch in the South. Fathers do not hit on their sons’ girlfriends. Come next door, fellas, we’ve got to solve this.”