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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.
    Fairkeep beamed. “Great!” From inside the jacket came a fancy pen and a cheap pad. “Give me a contact number,” he said.
    “I’ll give you my Mom’s number,” Stan told him. Since he lived with his Mom, this was also Stan’s number, but Dortmunder felt
     Stan wasn’t wrong to try for a little distance here.
    Fairkeep copied down the number Stan rattled off, then said, “Where is this? Brooklyn?”
    “Right.”
    “What is it, her cell?”
    “No, it’s her phone,” Stan