Babe turned to John. “Just so you know what’s happened here,” he said, “the Social Security numbers are much more important than the names. You can call yourself Little Bo Peep for all I care. But a corporation like ours simply cannot employ anybody who cannot demonstrate, with a valid Social Security number, their right to work in this country. We absolutely cannot hire wetbacks.”
Andy said, “Wetbacks?” sounding incredulous.
Babe patted the air in his direction. “Listen, I know you guys are homegrown, I know you’re not illegal aliens.”
“We are,” John said, with dignity, “illegal citizens.”
When they first started to do the camera thing, Dortmunder found himself, to his surprise, itching all over. That was completely unexpected, the idea that all of a sudden he’d be feeling this great need to scratch, all different parts of his body. He didn’t want to scratch, he just felt compelled to scratch, but he fought it off, because he was damned if he was going to stand there and look like an idiot, scratching himself like a dog with fleas in front of a bunch of cameras.
And the cameras themselves were intrusive in ways he hadn’t guessed. They were like those barely seen creatures in horror movies, the ones just leaving the doorway or disappearing up the stairs. Except that the cameras weren’t disappearing. They were there, just incessantly there, at the edge of your peripheral vision, their heads turning slightly, polite, silent, very curious, and big. Big.
Between the nudging presence of the cameras and the maddening need to scratch all these itches, Dortmunder found himself tightening into knots, his movements as stiff as the Tin Woodman’s before he gets the oil. I’m supposed to act natural, he told himself, but this isn’t natural. I’m lumbering around like Frankenstein’s monster. I feel like I’ve been filled up with itchy cement.
Dortmunder’s last dance is, in many ways, his most off-beat. You know the tune, but the cadence keeps throwing you off.
It goes back, as I said last time, to the more focused approach of the first few books–there is one idea here, pursued to its conclusion, logical or otherwise. The usual story elements are trotted out.
There is a heist–attempted several times, finally successful, which goes back to the very first book, the variation here being they’re not quite sure what they’re looking for, or where exactly to find it. It all takes place in New York. No new string members are introduced (none that are going to stick, anyway). Dortmunder, Kelp, Murch, Tiny, and (like him or not) Judson. The core group.
The ladies auxiliary, of May, Murch’s Mom, J.C., and Anne Marie–so important to previous books–present and accounted for but mainly sidelined. This isn’t about them. It’s about whether the men in their lives still count for something. Do they have a place in this world? (Technically, they should be on Social Security by now, but who says Social Security is going to have a place in this world?)
What’s missing? An identifiable enemy (unless you count Dortmunder’s arch enemy, change). Nobody is out to murder them. Nobody is out to jail them. Nobody is out to cheat them of their rightful due. The closest thing to a nemesis is this authority figure who keeps storming in, saying “This show is canceled, shut it down.” I am not the first to detect a metatextual overtone to this leitmotif, anymore than I’m the first to try and plumb the existential mysteries of maybe the most consummate storyteller the mystery genre ever had.
Am I too fanciful or is Babe, the executive producer, somehow Westlake’s own grim reaper, circling like a vulture before ringing down the curtain? Read carefully. At the least, it is rather chilling and moving how Babe sits in the corner, a “stiff” actor, while Dortmunder, Kelp, Tiny, and the kid are asked to reminisce “about the hits of yesteryear.” It’s the last book but the normally unsentimental author gets it in:
“The group cut up old jackpots, the bank in the trailer, the emerald they had to keep going back and getting again and again, the ruby that was too famous to hock so they had to put it back where they got it, the cache of cash in the reservoir. The time just seemed to go by.”
You know, it has at that.
The other Westlake completist (who never bothers much with the pseudonyms), says this one sticks out as well. He is, nonetheless, gratified our champion goes out a winner. “John Dortmunder, sad sack no more.” Might as well say John Dortmunder no more.
And what would Westlake want to do for the brainchild who was, in many ways, closest to his heart? If he suspected this was the final outing, and there’s reason to think he did. The elder and fiercer of his thieving progeny, self-reliant to the last, would always take arms against a sea of troubles, and in opposing end them. That younger, timider screw-up of a prodigal–who had still done his dad proud, so many times–he maybe needed a little help. A final bequest, let’s say. If he had the gumption to claim it. If to his own self he was true.
Although I have given less virtual ink to much better (and longer) Westlake novels, I have come to terms with the fact that there’s a lot to say about this one. Get Real is at least as good as Dirty Money. So a three parter this shall be, after all. (What happened to the Fred Fitch who polished off Ex Officio in 6,205 words? I suspect foul play.)
Let me try one final subheading motif, to move us along more briskly. We’ll begin with–
When Kelp came strolling down Varick Street at two that afternoon, he saw Dortmunder ahead of him, facing a building in midblock, frowning at it while he frisked himself. Kelp approached, interested in this phenomenon, and Dortmunder withdrew from two separate pockets a crumpled piece of paper and a ballpoint pen. Bending over the paper held in his cupped left palm, he began to write, with quick glances at the facade in front of him.
Ah. The right third of the building, at street level, was a gray metal overhead garage door, graffiti-smeared in a language that hadn’t been seen on Earth since the glory days of the Maya. To the immediate left of this was a vertical series of bell buttons, each with an identifying label. These were what Dortmunder was copying onto a cash register receipt from a chain drugstore.
Reading the labels directly, since Dortmunder’s handwriting was about as legible as the Mayan graffiti, Kelp saw:
5 GR DEVELOPMENT
4 SCENERY STARS
3 KNICKERBOCKER STORAGE
2 COMBINED TOOL
The building, broad and old, was made of large rectangular stone blocks, time-darkened to a blurry charcoal. On the street floor, to the left of the garage, were two large windows, barred for security and opaque with dirt, and beyond them at the farther end a gray metal door with a bell mounted in its middle at head height. The upper floors showed blank walls above the garage entrance and three windows each, all looking a little cleaner than the ones down here.
Putting paper and pen away, Dortmunder acknowledged Kelp’s presence for the first time: “Harya doin?”
“I wanna see the inside of the place,” Kelp told him.
“We can do that,” Dortmunder said, and pushed the button for five.
The gang has accepted Doug Fairkeep’s offer to build a reality show around them–while using the access they get to seek the caches of corporate cash, earmarked for illegal overseas bribes, which they now believe might exist within this grimy downtown edifice, occupied by several businesses, all of which may in fact be related to each other in some obscure way.
They meet Doug’s boss Babe Tuck, who introduces himself with the foreboding remark that they’re lucky to only have to worry about U.S. prisons. Aside from the occasional rape, stateside stir is so much cushier than what he encountered back during his foreign correspondent days. Life expectancy is much longer. Kelp says maybe it just seems longer. Babe likes that, says they have to keep a mike on this guy, he’s a character. Oh he is that, Babe.
The idea of the meeting is to figure out which aspects of the gang’s working life could be best translated to television. The subject of a hang-out is raised (‘lair’ is the word they actually use), and the TV people learn of the OJ Bar and Grill. They express a desire to see it–not to film there, they assure an alarmed Dortmunder, but to recreate it as a studio set, where the gang can be seen plotting their next job.
This show is going to be a bit different than your usual reality TV gig. Because they’re going to film people committing crimes, there will have to be a lot more artifice than is the case even with a ‘normal’ show of this type. (Which it seems to me is ever more true of the genre as a whole. Mission creep, you could call it.)
As the book goes on, the gang alternates between learning how to play edited versions of themselves, and trying to find that cash. As John puts it, the heist the TV people see and the one they don’t see. One of those other businesses, Combined Tool, has a door with a very sophisticated alarm system. Hmmm! Andy’s expertise with locks (no Wally Whistler or Herman X this time) is going to be tested as never before.
There is, as you see, an actual storage outfit in the building, which is a potential target for the TV heist–but that turns out to have nothing but people’s old worthless junk in it. Like, you know, a normal storage outfit. That has not been salted in advance with all kinds of rare wacky collectibles–which would have been one solution to the problem of how to pull a legal heist that people would enjoy watching on TV, but nobody suggests this. (Storage Wars premiered in 2010).
Doug Fairkeep is happy with how things are developing (or so he thinks), but the need for him to develop this new show is going to be accelerated by revelations concerning the previous one, as shall now be detailed in —
SAY YES TO THE DRESS:
“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.”
Meanwhile, over at The Stand, Doug’s other show, about an upstate New York farming family trying to hawk their produce by the roadside (in Putkin’s Corners, which you will remember from Drowned Hopes, though Dortmunder would much rather forget), things are not well, as you see. The show is about the family’s dynamic, and that is disintegrating, due in part to the pressure of being incessantly filmed. (What does that remind me of?)
A lushly proportioned blonde named Darlene has been hired to play the younger son’s love interest, spice up the storyline a bit, and he’s refusing to play along, because girls are yucky. The older son is deemed unsuitable because he’s established as the gloomy loner who is going to leave the old farm to study engineering. These people need to stay in character, dammit!
And the father, who would happily leap into bed with Darlene, is just too darned old. It’d be creepy. (I know what you’re all thinking, and so am I, about Doug’s assertion that older men hitting on really young women won’t play in the evangelical heartland, but let’s stay focused here. This is a family blog. Pretty sure nobody’s reading it while attending a megachurch, but maybe if the sermon goes long….)
Doug wants Darlene on the show, it should be mentioned, because he’s hoping to get her into bed himself (off camera, funny how the people who make these shows never seem to aspire to be in one themselves). This does not work out as planned either, but we’ll get to that.
The subplot with the Finch family goes on through the book, and ultimately ends with production on The Stand shutting down–the family just doesn’t want to play along anymore. They aren’t getting rich from it, fame hasn’t made them any happier, and business at their stand hasn’t picked up that much, probably because loyal viewers can’t navigate the secondary roads in upstate NY. (Can anyone?)
We never get to know any of the Finches, only hear about them through scattered reports, but they make an impression, regardless. I would describe them as the secondary heroes of the piece. Westlake himself hailed from that part of the world, and I think the point is that all inducements to the contrary, they just can’t help being themselves. Their real identities reject their fabricated identities, like an implant that didn’t take.
They say no to the show, refuse to hit their marks, and that’s how they stop being marks, sink with relief back into middle American mediocrity. Overoptimistic? We can ponder that question as we sink (metaphorically!) into our next topic, namely–
Darlene didn’t believe they were really serious. This was her third reality show—fourth, if you counted The Stand, though you probably shouldn’t—and in her experience nothing that happened in reality was serious. She’d been a contestant on Build Your Own Beauty Parlor and a survivor on The Zaniest Challenge of the Year! and would have been a fiancée on The Stand if that fellow hadn’t turned out to be all icky, and she had to say that not one of those shows had been any more serious than first love.
This one, that Doug Fairkeep kept calling The Gang’s All Here although apparently he really didn’t want to, would just be more of the same. This “gang” wasn’t going to steal anything. They were just a bunch of guys who could look like bank robbers in some B movie somewhere, that’s all.
Just look at the variety of people inside the “gang”: that was the giveaway. All of these cast-to-type characters, the ugly monster for the “muscle,” the sharpie with the line of patter, the gloomy mastermind, the testy driver, and the innocent youth, that last one so the audience would be able to see it all through his eyes. Everything but a black guy, so maybe you didn’t need a black guy any more.
Of the peripheral characters in this book, Darlene Looper is by far the best-developed (you know what I meant). Sexy in a way that probably won’t age well, but too young to let that bother her right now. Does she care about fame? No. Does she care about acting? Hell no. Will she take any excuse on offer to get the hell out of the dustbowl she was born in? Now you’re talking.
Darlene Looper was a product of North Flatte, Nebraska, a town that had had its peak of population and importance in the 1870s, after the railroad arrived and before the drought arrived. The railroad turned out to be a sometime thing, but the drought was the natural condition of the Great Plains, it being a kind of a joke on the European settlers that they got there in the middle of a rare rainy streak.
All the time Darlene was growing up, North Flatte was getting smaller, until there was nobody left who cared enough to correct the POP. sign on the edge of town, which would apparently read 1,247 forever. (In truth, the comma had moved out a long time ago.)
Darlene followed suit, and since then she’s played her assets for all they’re worth. But just because you invariably get cast as the dumb blonde doesn’t mean you have to play her in real life. Darlene gets a lot of things wrong, and her cynicism isn’t quite lived-in enough yet, but she knows her way around.
However, she’s so grounded in the fake world of entertainment as to see everything within that frame, translating the gang into a bunch of no-name bit players like her, posing as something they’re not, because she can’t grasp they’re legit thieves (though, of course, they were built by their creator along precisely the genre-based lines she perceives–and so was she–and so are lots of real people all around you, but they’re still made of flesh and blood, same as you.)
She knows why Doug Fairkeep really cast her, what extracurricular role he wants her to play, and she just plays along, giving him nothing. And he, thankfully, is no Harvey Weinstein (give him a few more years…..).
Darlene is no longer surprised by anything, so she no longer takes joy in anything. A hardened trouper in her early 20’s, whose jaundiced reaction to reality TV is that it’s a lot like first love. A whole lot of fuss over nothing. What is there in this world for someone simultaneously so naif and blasé?
How about true love? She meets somebody, on the new show, that she got drafted onto after her role on the one about veg peddlers went away. She figured she’d just end up sleeping with this or that member of the gang (either Kelp or Judson, doesn’t even think to find out if either is spoken for).
Then The Real Thing hits her right between the eyes, as it always does, when you least expect it. And all at once she realizes there are things in this life you can’t fake your way through, and there is no script. Even reality can get real, sometimes.
The Great God Westlake was in a giving vein, as he wrote this final book. And what he has on offer could be called–
RAY HARBACH (Dippo) is pleased to be back in the Excelsior Theater, where he appeared three seasons ago as Kalmar in the revival of Eugene O’Neill’s The Iceman Cometh. Other theater roles have included work by Mamet, Shaw, Osborne, and Orton. Film: Ocean’s 12; Rollerball. Television: The New Adventures of the Virgin Mary and the Seven Dwarfs at the North Pole; The Sopranos; One Life to Live; Sesame Street. I want to dedicate this production to my father, Hank.
Doug goes for a meeting with Babe Tuck, only to find Babe has recruited an actor to play one of the gang members. Not like Darlene. A bonafide thespian, with a long list of past roles, and just a trace of a criminal background (more like he used to hang out with guys who used to hang out with guys who may have done something).
The story for the gang is that Ray Harbach is there to teach them how to act for the camera. The real story is that he’s there to report back to Babe, make sure nothing’s amiss with these felons. He’s game, as long as they make sure he’s covered on the legal end.
He’s got an applicable skill–he can climb walls like a human fly. The gang’s very impressed. But once they’re out of earshot, Kelp asks everybody what they think of the human fly. “He’s a human plant,” Tiny growls. Because obviously.
So they work it this way–they pretend to ditch Murch (Doug’s afraid they’ve killed him). Murch is still part of the genuine job they intend to pull, at Combined Tool. But he’s out of the show (even though it was his mom who got them on the show in the first place). Ray Harbach can take his place on the fake heist–but they will freeze him out of anything real. Same goes for Darlene, which means even Judson isn’t going to hook up with her (kid never gets a break).
And since they’re the only experienced actors on the show, and there isn’t much of anything else for them to do, they get assigned the obligatory fake reality romantic subplot. Guess what?
The setup was this: Ray, the wall-walking specialist of the gang, had recently met Darlene and had wanted to show her off to the guys, but when he did, the contrast between her nearly fresh innocence (it’s all in the acting) and their jaded disbelief (no acting required) had shown him his life in a whole new light.
So they’d gone off to Central Park together, that was the idea, to be away from the others, unobserved, so they could talk things over. What was their relationship, really? (In reality show terms, that is.) What was their future? Did they have a future together?
They spent most of that day filming all over the park, with all the necessary permits, that was part of what made the day so special and so much fun and so liberating. They rowed a boat together on the lake, they wandered together in the Ramble, they watched the joggers endlessly circling the reservoir (without joining them, although Marcy would have dearly loved it if they had), they walked around Belvedere Castle, they observed the imposing stone buildings that stood like sentinels in long straight rows all around the periphery of the park, and they talked it all out, coming to several different conclusions in the course of several different takes of each sequence, because Roy wanted to keep his options open. (At that time, so did Ray.)
And they shared one brief tentative tremulous kiss, late in the day, on the path beside the Drive, surrounded by taxis and hansom cabs and joggers and bicyclists, all of whom, this being New York, ignored the smoochers in their midst.
And then they all went home, walking out of the park, Darlene and Ray and the others, and they didn’t even hold hands. But they knew, they both knew, and a little later that evening they confirmed their knowledge.
Basically, nothing else happens with Ray and Darlene, and far as we know, they lived happily ever after in Ray’s nice little actor’s apartment, full of his old Playbills and 8×10 glossies, and maybe she even became a real actress with his tutelage. One hopes it won’t end up like another damn remake of A Star Is Born (he’s at least twenty years older), but something tells me these two will always be supporting players, and those are the best kind. HR did its bit, and the rest is up to them.
Meanwhile, back at the OJ–wait a minute–we’re at the TV studio! What’s the OJ doing here? Somebody call–
“It’s like a set,” Kelp said.
“From the wrong side,” Dortmunder said. “Is there a way in?”
There was. Around the rough unfinished wall they came to an opening, and now they could see that what had been built was a broad but shallow three-walled room without a ceiling. A dark wood bar, a little beat-up, stretched along the back wall, on which were mounted beer posters and mirrors that had been smeared with something that looked like soap, so they wouldn’t reflect. A jumble of bottles filled the back bar, plus a cash register at the right end. Barstools in a row looked as though they’d come directly from the wholesale restaurant supply place next door, and so did the two tables and eight chairs in the grouping in front of the bar. At the right end of the bar stood two pinball machines, and at the left end a doorway into darkness.
Kelp, in wonder, said, “It’s the OJ.”
“Well, it isn’t the OJ,” Dortmunder said.
“No, I know it isn’t,” Kelp said, “but that’s what they’re going for.”
John and Andy first come across The Fake OJ while trying to find a way into Combined Tool one night. Kelp is impressed at how real a fake it is–Dortmunder is disgusted. He says he feels like a guy who fakes an autobiography. “We haven’t done anything and already this is a lie.” (Too pure a soul for this age, I sometimes fear.)
Before you know it, The Fake OJ has a Fake Rollo the Bartender (played by Rodney, another fine supporting player), and as for the barstool brigade–
When Kelp and Dortmunder and Tiny and the kid walked into the fake OJ Tuesday afternoon at two, Doug and Marcy and Roy Ombelen and Rodney the bartender and the camera crews were already there, clustered around the left end of the bar, where in the real joint the regulars reigned.
As they approached the bar, Rodney was saying, “No way Shakespeare wrote those plays. He didn’t have the education, he hadn’t been anywhere, he was just a country bumpkin. An actor. A very good actor, everybody says so, but just an actor.”
Doug said, “Isn’t some duke supposed to be the real guy?”
“Oh, Clarence,” Rodney said, in dismissal.
“I heard that, too,” Marcy said. “That’s very interesting.”
“No, it wasn’t him,” Rodney said, scoffing at the idea. “In fact, if you study those plays the way I did, you’ll see they couldn’t have been written by a man at all.”
Marcy, astonished, said, “A woman?”
“No sixteenth-century guy,” Rodney said, “had that kind of modern attitude toward women or instinctive understanding of the woman’s mind.”
One of the camerapersons said, “My husband says it was Bacon.”
Another cameraperson, dripping scorn, said, “They’re not talking about meat, they’re talking about Shakespeare.”
“Sir Francis Bacon.”
Roy said to Rodney, “I venture to say you have someone in mind.”
“Queen,” Rodney pronounced, “Elizabeth the First.”
Kelp and Dortmunder looked at one another. “You build it,” Kelp murmured, “they will come.”
(Malcolm X thought it was King James. You know, the one with the bible. Everybody’s got a pet theory. Mine is that it was that Stratford bum. Because who else had the time?)
Marcy, the writer who can’t call herself a writer, is hanging at the fake OJ as well, which kind of makes sense. If anything here does. She’s got some ideas for how to save their show that keeps threatening not to happen (I could do a Project Greenlight segment, but this is getting long).
Marcy and the rest of the cast were now clustered at one of the side booths, and Marcy waved to Kelp and called, “Come on over, Andy, we’re working out the story line.”
The story line. 1) You go in. 2) You take what you came for. 3) You go out. If civilians are present, insert 1A) You show, but do not employ, weapons. Marcy’s story line would be a little more baroque.
Kelp went over, found a sliver of bench available next to Tiny, perched on it, and Marcy leaned in to be confidential, saying, “I hope you held out for a lot more money.”
“Oh, sure,” Kelp said. “You know us.”
Because, of course, Marcy didn’t know anything. She didn’t know why they’d left, and she didn’t know why they were back. So, as with the reality show, she was making up her own story line, which was perfectly okay.
“What we need, in the next couple weeks of the show,” Marcy told them, “is some sense of menace. Not from you guys, some other outside force.”
Dortmunder said, “Like the law, you mean?”
“No, we don’t want to bring the police in until the very end of the season. The escape from the police will be the great triumph, and it’ll make up for you not getting the big score you were counting on from the storage rooms.”
Kelp said, “Oh, we’re not getting that?”
“It’s a little more complicated than that,” Marcy said. “I don’t want you to know the story too far ahead, because it can affect the way you play it. But I can guarantee you, the escape from the police will be the climax of the first season.”
“I’d watch it,” the kid said.
“For a menace from the outside,” Marcy said, “what do you think of another gang going after the exact same target?”
Kelp said, “Wasn’t that in a Woody Allen movie?”
“Oh, it’s been in dozens of movies,” she said. “That’s all right. Nobody expects reality to be original. People will see that, and they’ll laugh and they’ll say, ‘Just like the Woody Allen movie, and here the same thing happens in real life.’ ”
Dortmunder said, “That’s what they say, huh?”
(Nobody gets it when Dortmunder uses irony. He has one of those faces where ironic is the default expression, so it goes unnoticed. Much like the reference to Take The Money And Run, which came out about the same time Westlake was working on The Hot Rock, and long before Too Many Crooks, a more organic and sustained use of the basic gag, but credit where credit is due, assuming the Woodman didn’t steal it from somebody else, which I don’t. He’s got bigger stuff to worry about these days. Like when did he have his funnybone surgically removed? Does Blue Cross cover that? Wonder Wheel, Schmonder Wheel.)
In the midst of all these media-based meta-isms, there is actual thievery going on, most of it from none other than Stan The Man Murch, or as he shall now be known–
KING OF CARS:
Vehicles, vehicles everywhere. Big ones, little ones, new ones, old ones, valuable ones, junk. Whistling behind his teeth, Stan wandered among all these wheels and used his cell phone to take pictures of the ones he thought might be of interest. He stopped after he’d chosen six, not wanting to be greedy, then picked for tonight’s transportation a relatively modest black Dodge Caliber, mostly because it was pretty close to the garage door and wouldn’t require shifting too many other vehicles around to get it out of here.
The Caliber had apparently been used one way or another in movie- or television-making, because the passenger floor in front was littered with several random screenplay pages and the entire back area was a foot deep in plastic coffee cups and fast food trays. The glove box contained four different lipsticks, a package of condoms, and a cell phone; people are always leaving their cell phones.
Well, all of this would be somebody else’s problem, farther down the line. Stan merely drove the Caliber out to Varick Street, then left it athwart the sidewalk as he ducked back in to close the garage door.
Satisfied with the day’s work, he steered the Caliber down through the Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel and thence by many secondary streets across Brooklyn to Canarsie, pausing along the way to pick up from a closed movie rental place a DVD of Pit Stop (1969, Brian Donlevy, with a cameo from George Barris, famous custom car builder) to watch that night with his Mom.
Leaving the Caliber at the curb on a side street a couple blocks from home, he returned to it Thursday morning to find it was still there, so he drove it onto an even more remote area than Canarsie, a neighborhood—if that isn’t too fancy a word—somewhere out there that was in a way Brooklyn, in a way Queens, and very nearly but not quite, Nassau County.
Murch has been thrown off the fake heist, and as matters work themselves out, he won’t really be needed as a driver on the real one, but as the ultimate rolling stone, he’s still going to gather some moss. There is a huge parking garage on the ground floor of Get Real’s headquarters on Varick Street. Conveniently located near a tunnel leading out of Manhattan. Full of all kinds of cars used for shoots. So many that it will take some time for anyone to realize some of them aren’t there anymore.
There aren’t a lot of fake names for American-made autos here, a running gag in the late Dortmunders. I thought Dodge Caliber might be fake, particularly since Westlake uses it to make a pun, but it’s an actual car, a five door compact. (Not sure what caliber that would be, .32 maybe?)
There’s a Chevy Gazpacho–I don’t want to know if that’s real. There’s a GMC Mastodon, and I think we already had that one? No? They kind of blur together after a while. Much like the cars themselves, which is one of the many reasons Detroit is having problems now.
He pops over to Maximillian’s Used Cars, where things proceed much as always, except Harriet the receptionist has a computer now, and Max is all agog at the photos Stan presents him of creampuff after creampuff, all of them his for the asking (and cash, needless to say). “What’d you do?” he asked. “Follow them to their nest?” More or less, yeah.
But he hasn’t reckoned on the mama bird, namely Babe Tuck, who marches in (for the second time in the book, to proclaim “This show is canceled. Shut it down.” Because somebody’s been taking cars from the garage downstairs, and guess who Babe thinks that would be? Dortmunder doesn’t need to be any kind of detective to solve that mystery. And he was just working on a way to monetize the prospective storage heist (this is before the discussion with Marcy at the Fake OJ), which brings us to our final easily-named segment–
HARDCORE PAWN (the other one was too easy):
For instance, last week they kind of took the show on the road. All of them except Ray, since there was to be no actual planning or wall-walking involved, went to a real pawnshop and talked to a real pawnbroker, who wasn’t like old suspenders-wearing pawnbrokers in the movies, but was some kind of Asian guy, very thin, who talked very fast with a hard click-like thing at the end of every word. He thought what they were doing was hilarious, and he kept cracking up with high-pitched giggles, his whole face scrunched around his laughing mouth. Marcy and Doug kept at him to stay serious, to remember the actual cash money they’d be paying him, and eventually he did settle down enough so they could get through it.
But it wasn’t any good. That is, it wasn’t any good on purpose. The whole point of the week was that Tiny knew this pawnbroker, so they all went over to talk with him (taxi scenes, with Tiny all over the front seat, and another reason not to include Ray), because this pawnbroker would be willing to take whatever it was they would be removing from the storage company.
But then it turned out he was only willing to take the stuff on consignment, and consignment was not going to cut it. Thieves don’t work on consignment. Thieves obtain the goods, they sell the goods, they take cash on the barrelhead. That’s why they finish with such a small percentage of the value of whatever they’ve taken, which was all right, because it meant they had something where they had nothing before.
The question must be asked–why do they need to steal anything? I mean, other than whatever Get Real sets up for them to steal, or fail to steal, or maybe get stolen from them? However the season finale works out, they get 20 grand apiece. That’s better than they’ve done in most of the previous books, even allowing for inflation (they got bupkus in a lot of the previous books, and inflation does bupkus to bupkus).
It’s even been worked out so that they don’t have to provide things like Social Security numbers, through a clever dodge (that Kelp thought of, naturally) involving paying them through a related company in the UK. (Been a lot of clever dodges like that going around lately, wouldn’t you say? Deutschebank, Deutschebank, uber alles. Andy, have you been moonlighting again?)
And the reason is, this is what they do. They are thieves. Not ‘reality’ thieves. Real thieves. And once you’re real, you can never become unreal again–right?
That is the question we shall ask next week. When I finish this review. Yes, really.
(Part of Friday’s Forgotten Books. Possibly for the last time, but be that as it may, thanks to Patti and Todd for all the plugs.)