Get Real

10

WHEN THE PHONE on the Murch kitchen wall sounded at eight-fifteen on Thursday morning, both mother and son frowned at it from their twinned breakfast helpings of white toast, much grape jelly, black coffee, and a matched set of Road & Track magazine. They watched the phone through its ensuing silence, and when it sounded a second time Stan said, “That isn’t for me. I don’t know anybody up at this hour. It’s taxi business.”

“You don’t do taxi business on the phone,” she said, but nevertheless she got to her feet, crossed to the phone, slapped it to her ear, and snapped, “Go ahead,” giving nothing away.

Stan, striving to appear as though he wasn’t watching and listening, watched and listened, and was surprised when his mother abruptly smiled and said, with no ill will at all, “Sure I remember. How you doing?” Then she turned, still smiling, extended the phone toward Stan, and said, sweetly, “It’s for you.”

Oh. Getting it, Stan said, “Reality check,” got to his feet, and took the phone, while his triumphant mother went back to her breakfast and her SUV comparison appraisals. Into the phone, Stan said, “Yeah, hello. You’re up early.”

It was Doug from yesterday, all right, “Reality,” he said, “waits for no man, Stan.”

“Where are you, a Chinese fortune cookie factory?”

“Ha ha. Listen, it’s time we got started.”

“Doing what?”

“The Gang’s All Here. You like it?”

Stan had the feeling he was in the wrong conversation somehow. He said, “Like what?”

“The title. The Gang’s All Here. You like it?”

“No.”

“Well,” Doug said, sounding just a little hurt, “it isn’t written in stone.”

“No, it wouldn’t be.”

“What we’ve got to do,” Doug said, determinedly getting down to business, “is make a start here. I don’t need the whole five men yet, but I want to get together with you and John and Andy soonest.”

Stan still wasn’t comfortable with the idea that this civilian knew everybody’s name. He said, “Where do you want to do this, your office?”

“No. We’ve got a rehearsal space downtown, we—”

“Wait a minute,” Stan said. “You got a rehearsal space for reality shows?”

“It isn’t like that,” Doug said. “It’s a big open space, like a loft, it gives us the chance, try out some ideas, smooth out some problems before we really get moving.”

“Okay.”

“When do you think you guys could get there?”

“Well, I’ll have to talk to the other two, they probly aren’t up yet.”

“Out burgling all night? Yuk yuk.”

“No.” Stan could be patient, when he had to be; it comes with being the driver. “We don’t punch a clock, see,” he explained, “so we like to sleep in.”

“Of course. I tell you what. I’ll give you the address, my cell number, call me back and tell me when we can meet. Okay?”

“Sure.”

“It’s down on Varick Street,” Doug said, “below Houston, the freight elevator opens onto the sidewalk, that’s where the bell is.”

“Okay.”

“We’re the fifth floor, that’s the top floor, the name on the bell is GR Development.”

“I’ll call you back,” Stan said, and hung up.

“Taxi business,” his mother said, and snapped a page in Road & Track.