More Tales of the City
Page 7
And then he caught his breath.
For now she was holding the binoculars with her right hand … and using her left hand to unknot the cord of her bathrobe.
As the robe slipped to the floor, so did Brian’s.
On that sixth enchanted evening, across a crowded city.
On-the-Job Training
MONA’S FIRST AFTERNOON AT THE BLUE MOON Lodge was disappointingly uneventful. The phone rang only twice. The first call was from a man who wanted to know if Monique still worked there. A quick aside with Mother Mucca revealed that she did not.
“She left last month,” the madam explained. “She’s a directory assistance operator in Reno.”
“What do I tell this guy, then?”
“Tell him Doreen knows that bit too.”
“What bit?”
“Don’t be so goddamn nosy!”
Mona frowned and picked up the receiver again. “Uh … Monique isn’t here anymore, but Doreen … knows how to do that too.”
The customer hesitated. “The whole thing?”
“Uh huh.”
“With the rabbit’s foot and all?”
“Uh … one moment, please.”
Mother Mucca was looking irritated. “Don’t you know the first damn thing about—”
“He’s asking about a goddamn rabbit’s foot!”
The old woman’s mouth puckered into a pout. “Don’t you talk nasty to your elders, dolly! I’ll wash your fuckin’ mouth out with soap!”
Mona softened her tone. “What about the rabbit’s foot?”
Mother Mucca shrugged. “Doreen can do it.”
Mona returned to the customer. “Yes, she can do the … rabbit’s foot thing.”
“All the way?”
“Yes. Satisfaction guaranteed.”
“The girls in Battle Mountain fake it, ya know?”
“Maybe so,” snapped Mona, “but this isn’t Battle Mountain. This is the Blue Moon Lodge!”
Mother Mucca beamed, squeezing Mona’s arm. “Atta girl, Judy! Atta girl!”
And the glow Mona felt came from pure, unadulterated pride.
One by one, the girls of the Blue Moon Lodge began to straggle into the parlor. There were seven in all, including Bobbi. The oldest seemed to be in her mid-thirties. She had ratted hair and thin lips and looked like a gospel singer from the Billy Graham Crusade.
“You’re Judy, ain’t ya? I’m Charlene.”
Charlene, Bobbi, Doreen, Bonnie, Debby, Marnie and Sherry. Jesus, thought Mona. What the hell are they. Hookers or Mouseketeers?
Charlene was checking her out. “Mother Mucca says you’re working the phones this week.”
“Yeah, just—you know—for the experience.”
That was wrong, all wrong. Patronizing as hell. Charlene knew it, too. “You ain’t writin’ one o’ them—whatchacallit—college papers?”
“No.”
“Good.” She knelt, stretching her lime-sherbert Capri pants to the limit, and turned on a mammoth color television set. Mona noticed for the first time that the top of the set was adorned with a Plasticine bust of JFK.
Most of the girls were watching Merv Griffin when the second customer call came in.
“Who’s this?” asked a well-modulated voice.
“I’m Mo … I’m Judy. I’m working here this week.”
“Oh.”
“Mother Mucca has authorized me to—”
“I think I’d better talk to her, please.”
Mona was piqued. “Sir, if you would like to make an appointment, I’ll be glad—”
Sensing a problem, Mother Mucca moved to Mona’s side. “He givin’ you trouble, Judy?”
“He insists on talking to you.”
The madam took the phone. “Yeah, this is … Oh, yes, sir…. No, she’s a new girl. I’ve … Yes, sir, she can be trusted completely…. Yes, sir…. Of course, sir…. No, that’s not short notice at all….I’ll take the usual precautions….Fine, sir…. Goodbye and thank you very much.”
The old woman hung up the phone, curiously subdued. The gentility she had mustered for the conversation left Mona somewhat stunned.
“Charlene,” said Mother Mucca.
“Yeah?”
“Get rid o’ the other johns tonight.”
“Huh?”
“You heard me. Get rid of ‘em. Call ‘em up or reschedule ‘em or somethin’, but get rid of ‘em.”
“Was that …?”
Mother Mucca nodded. “He’s flyin’ in from Sacramento.”
Charlene whistled softly. “Which girl did he ask for?”
“He didn’t.”
“Huh?”
“He wants a new one.”
Cravings
UNDER WAY AGAIN, THE PACIFIC PRINCESS STEAMED south toward Manzanillo, washed in the light of a full moon. Shortly after eight o’clock Mary Ann emerged from her bath and anointed her body with turtle lotion.
In less than an hour she would be having her first real date with Burke.
“Am I getting brown yet, Mouse?”
“What? Oh, yeah … fine.”
“Whatcha reading?”
“Holy shit!”
“It must be good.”
He whistled in disbelief, still hunched over his book. Mary Ann grew impatient. “Mouse … show me!”
Michael held up the paperback. It was entitled Cruise Ships—The Inside Story. “I bought this damn thing down in the gift shop. I mean, they were actually pushing it!”
He read to her: “ ‘There are two categories of aggressive women among cruise passengers. There are those who are after the medals and those who just like tramping around.’ ”
“That’s the most sexist thing I’ve ever—”
“ ‘The former like to aim at officers. The latter like nothing better than to disappear into crew quarters and spend the rest of the voyage in a variety of arms.’”
“Well, variety is the— ”
“Wait. Here comes the good part: ‘Occasionally, wealthy and lonely male homosexuals—’”
“You’re making that up!”
“Listen, will you? ‘Occasionally, wealthy and lonely male homosexuals will appear on a cruise, attempting to buy the favor of crew members. It is an easy task.’ ”
“Let me see that!”
He held the book so she could see it and continued to read.
“ ‘A generous tip will carry the request to a willing crew member. Sometime later, the cabin phone will ring and a deal will be struck.’ ”
“Leave it to you to find that.”
“Well, don’t get snotty, just because you’ve found Mr. Right already.”
Like a long-married couple, they sensed a pun together and spoke it in unison. “All right, already!”
She tried on three blouses, unable to settle on the best complement for her beige slacks.
“Stick with the blue,” said Michael. “That orange thing makes you look like Ann-Margret.”
“Maybe I want to look like Ann-Margret.”
Michael sighed laboriously. “All right. If you seriously think that nice Nantucket boy is hot for the kitten-with-a-whip type, go right ahead and—”
Mary Ann threw off the blouse and scowled at him. “You’re worse than Debbie Nelson!”
“Thank you. Who’s Debbie Nelson?”
“My freshman roommate.”
“The blue is very wholesome.”
“Screw wholesome.”
Michael pretended to be aghast. “Wash your mouth out, young lady!” He buttoned up the blue blouse. “There. Look at yourself. Isn’t that better?”
“My mother hired you, didn’t she? You’re a plant.”
“A pansy, to be specific.”
“Look, don’t you think that cream blouse might—”
Michael ignored her. “Blow,” he ordered.
“What?”
“Blow in my face. You had two slices of garlic bread tonight.”
“Mouse! I am perfectly capable—”
She blew.
Leaving the stateroom, she turned and winked at him. “Don’t wait up for me, Babycakes!”
He stuck his tongue out at her.
“Thank you, Mouse. I love you.”
“Save the schmaltz for Thunder Thighs.”
“What are you gonna do?”
“Right now it’s a tossup between shuffleboard and self-abuse.”
She laughed. “There’s a Cole Porter revue in the Carrousel—”
“Will you get outa here!”
He read for an hour, then wandered out onto the Promenade Deck, where he leaned on the rail, watching the ocean. Up here, away from the white vinyl shoes and harlequin glasses, it was easier to visualize the kind of sea cruise that inhabited his dreams: Noel Coward and Gertie Lawrence. Eccentric dowagers and rakish gigolos and steamer trunks stuffed with stowaways …
Romantic self-delusion, all of it. Like his hope for a lover, really. A futile, if harmless, fantasy that did little more than distract him from the imperturbable, central fact of his life: He was alone in this world. And he would always be alone.
Some people—the happy ones, probably—could deal with that knowledge the way they dealt with the weather. They skimmed along the surface of life exulting in their self-sufficiency, and because of it, they were never alone. Michael knew about those people, for he had tried to mimic them.
The ruse, however, rarely worked. The hunger always showed in his eyes.
Back in the stateroom, he smoked a joint and worked up the nerve to push the steward’s button on the telephone. The steward appeared five minutes later.
“Yes, sir?”
“Hi, George.”
“Good evening, Mr. Tolliver. What can I do for you?”
“Yes. Well, I’d like … I mean, if you don’t mind …” He reached for his wallet. “George, I’d like you to have this.” He handed the steward a ten-dollar bill.
“Very kind, sir.”
“George, would you …? I understand it’s possible for you to make arrangements…. Do you think you could bring me some ice cream?”
“Certainly, sir. What flavor?”
“I don’t … Chocolate, I guess.”
The steward smiled, pocketing the bill. “One of those late-night cravings, eh?”
“Yeah,” said Michael. “The worst.”
Vita Saves the Day
THE ARTIFACTS OF DEDE’S MAIDENHOOD STILL HAUNTED her old bedroom at Halcyon Hill. A tattered Beatles poster. A Steiff giraffe from F. A. O. Schwarz. A swizzle stick from the Tonga Room. A jar of dried rose petals from Cotillion days.
Nothing had been altered, nothing touched, as if the occupant of this artless little pink-and-green room had perished in a plane crash, and a grieving, obsessive survivor had preserved it as a shrine for posterity.
In a way, of course, she had died.
In Mother’s eyes, at least.
“Darling, I’m sorry. None of it makes any sense to me.”
“It’s between me and Beauchamp, Mother.”
“I could help, if you’d just let me.”
“No, you can’t. Nobody can.”
“I’m your mother, darling. Surely there’s—”
“Just drop it.”
“Have you told Binky?”
DeDe’s anger rose. “What the hell’s that got to do with it?”
“I just wondered.”
“You just wondered if any of those leathery old bitches at the Francisca Club are gonna be gossiping about your precious, darling daughter!”
“DeDe!”
“You think the separation’s gonna hit Carson Callas’s column tomorrow, and you won’t be able to hold your head up at the Cow Hollow Inn. Well, too bad, Mother! Too goddamn bad!”
Frannie Halcyon sat on the edge of her daughter’s bed and stared numbly at the wall. “I’ve never heard you talk this way, DeDe.”
“No. I guess not.”
“Is it the pregnancy? Sometimes that can—”
“No.”
“You ought to be radiant, darling. When I was expecting you, I felt so—”
“Mother, please don’t start on this again.”
“But why now, darling? Why would you leave Beauchamp only weeks before—”
“Look, I can’t help it. I can’t help it if I don’t feel radiant. I can’t help a goddamn thing about Beauchamp. I’m having the babies. I want them. Isn’t that enough, Mother?”
Frannie’s brow wrinkled. “Why on earth shouldn’t you want them?”
Silence.
“DeDe?”
“I’ve got a headache, Mother.”
Frannie sighed, kissed her on the cheek and stood up. “I love you, but you don’t seem like my child anymore. I think I know … how Catherine Hearst must feel.”
The matriarch of Halcyon Hill was mixing a Mai Tai when the phone rang.
“Mrs. Halcyon?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Helena Parrish. I was referred to you by Vita Keating.”
Frannie braced herself for another well-bred pitch to join the board of another museum. “Oh … yes,” she said cautiously.
“I’ll get straight to the point, Mrs. Halcyon. I have been asked to approach you concerning your interest in affiliating with Pinus.”
Frannie wasn’t sure she had heard right.
“You’re not familiar with us, perhaps?”
“No, I … Well, of course, I’ve heard of … Excuse me, if this is one of Vita’s jokes, I don’t think it’s …”
The caller chuckled throatily. “It’s no joke, Mrs. Halcyon.”
“I … I see.”
“Do you suppose we could get together for a little chat sometime soon?”
“Yes. Well, of course.”
“How’s tomorrow?”
“Fine. Uh … shall we meet somewhere for lunch?”
“Actually, we prefer to keep a lower profile. May I call on you at Halcyon Hill?”
“Certainly. When?”
“Oh … twoish?”
“Lovely.”
“Good. Ta-ta, then.”
“Ta-ta,” said Frannie, feeling her heart rise to her throat.
Looking for a Lady
BRIAN SPENT THE MORNING IN WASHINGTON SQUARE, sunning his body for a person who would probably never know the difference. As he trudged back up Union Street to Barbary Lane, he suddenly decided that it was time to confront his fantasy face to face.
He turned off Union at Leavenworth and walked a block up the hill to Green Street, where the Superman Building shimmered magically in the sunshine.
Up close, its moderne hieroglyphics seemed to take on a kind of mystical significance, as if they themselves concealed the secret identity of Lady Eleven.
As Brian approached, a Luxor cab deposited a passenger on the sidewalk. An LOL. And she was headed for the door of the Superman Building.
“Excuse me, ma’am?”
“Yes?”
“I’m looking for a friend of mine who lives here. It’s kind of embarrassing, actually. I’ve forgotten her name. She lives on the eleventh floor. She’s about my age, with longish hair and—”
The old woman’s face slammed shut on him. Brian was certain she carried Mace in her purse. “The names are by the buzzers,” she snarled.
“Oh. Yes, I see.”
He walked to the buzzers, feeling the woman’s eyes on him all the time. He stood there for a moment, pretending to survey the names. Then he turned around and faced his white-gloved accuser.
“I’m not a rapist, lady.”
The old woman glared at him, drew herself up and stormed into the building. She spoke several words to the security guard, who turned and studied Brian, then said something to the LOL.
Brian continued to scan the names, hoping his nonchalance didn’t appear too hoky. He was burning with guilt and hated himself for it.
There were six names listed on the el
eventh floor: Jenkins, Lee, Mosely, Patterson, Fuentes and Matsumoto. A big goddamn help.
Maybe if he left a note with the guard … No, the asshole was already giving him the evil eye. And there was no way he could lurk around the lobby until Lady Eleven showed up. On the other hand, if he …
“Can I help you?” The guard had moved in. Trying his damnedest to look like Karl Malden.
“Well, I’m looking for a young woman.”
The guard’s expression said: I’ll just bet you are, sonny boy.
“Forget it,” said Brian.
He would see her in twelve hours, anyway.
He reversed his course again and headed back down Union Street to La Contadina. He needed a glass of wine to steady his nerves. Sometimes a fascist in uniform could screw up your whole day.
When he reached the restaurant, an outlandish figure waved at him from a huge, thronelike chair by the window. It was Mrs. Madrigal, decked out in a paisley turban, blue eye shadow and harem pajamas. She beckoned him in.
“Will you join me?”
“Sure,” he said, sitting down across from her. He felt slightly out of sync in his gym shorts and sweat shirt. Mrs. Madrigal herself seemed somewhat frayed around the edges.
“Brian … you haven’t seen Mona, have you?”
“No. Not for a week or so.”
“I’m worried. She left me a note when Mary Ann and Michael left, saying she’d be gone for a while, but I haven’t heard a word since. I thought maybe you … Nothing, huh?”
Brian shook his head. “Sorry.”
The landlady fidgeted with her turban. “She can be … quite foolish sometimes.”
“I don’t know her that well. How long has she been at the house?”
“Oh … well over three years. Brian, has she ever … talked to you about me?”
He thought for a moment. “Never. Why?”
“I’m afraid I’ve been a little foolish myself. I just hope it’s not too late.”
“I don’t …”
“Mona is my daughter, Brian.”
Her tenants, thought Brian, are always her “children.” He smiled understandingly. “You must be very close to her.”
“No, Brian. I mean she’s my real daughter.”