Tales of the City

by Armistead Maupin

  He slipped into corduroy trousers and a white shirt, brushed his teeth, Pro-Maxed his hair into place, and ran a wet towel across his Weejuns.

  There was no point in looking like a deadbeat.

  The landlady’s angular face, usually so mobile, was locked into the smile of a corporate receptionist.

  She seemed artificially restrained, moving with such deliberate dignity that her kimono looked as dowdy as a housecoat.

  “Mona’s left, hasn’t she?”

  He nodded. “Yesterday.”

  “For good?”

  “So she says. But you know Mona.”

  “Yes.” Her smile was off-kilter.

  “I’m gonna stay, Mrs. Madrigal. I mean … I’d like to. Mona’s gonna pay off the rest of this month’s rent, and I’ve registered with an employment agency, so if you’re worried …”

  “Where did she go, Michael?”

  “Oh … uh … a friend’s house. In Pacific Heights.”

  Mrs. Madrigal walked to the window, where she stood motionless, keeping her back to Michael. “Pacific Heights,” she echoed.

  “Didn’t she … talk to you, Mrs. Madrigal?”

  “No.”

  “I’m sure she planned to. Things have been kinda hectic for her lately. Anyway, I’m still here. It’s not like she’s breaking a lease or anything.”

  “Do you know this person, Michael?”

  “Who? … Oh … no, I’ve never met her.”

  “A woman?”

  He nodded. “Somebody she knew in New York.”

  “Oh.”

  “Mona says she’s really nice.”

  “I’m sure … Michael, you don’t have to answer this if you don’t want to….”

  “Uh huh?”

  “Is this woman … are she and Mona special friends?”

  “Uh …”

  “Do you understand me, dear?”

  “Sure. I don’t know, Mrs. Madrigal. They used to be … in New York. I think they’re just … regular friends now.”

  “Well … then why on earth …? Michael, has Mona ever said anything to you about me? Anything that … might make you think she was unhappy here?”

  “No, ma’am,” he said earnestly, reverting to Central Floridian custom. “She was crazy about Barbary Lane … and she liked you a lot.”

  Mrs. Madrigal turned to face him. “Liked?” she asked. “No. Likes. She’s very fond of you, I’m sure she’ll call. Really.”

  The landlady turned crisply businesslike again. “Well, you’re staying. That’s something.”

  “I’ll try to be better about the rent.”

  “I know. Look, dear, I’ve got a brand-new lid, and the night is young. Will you join me?”

  Her fingers trembled noticeably as she worked the roller. She set it down, drew a breath, and massaged her forehead with both hands. “I’m sorry, Mouse. I’m being awfully silly.”

  “Please don’t … Where did you hear that name?”

  She chewed her lower lip for a moment, observing him. “I’m not the only one that Mona was fond of.”

  “Oh … yeah.”

  “My stupid fingers won’t behave! Would you do the …?”

  He took the roller from her, avoiding her eyes as they began to fill with tears. “Mrs. Madrigal, I wish I could say …”

  She moved no closer, but her long, slender hand came to rest on his knee as she pressed a handkerchief to her face. “I hate weepy women,” she said.

  The Shadow Knows

  THE RAT-FACED MAN IN THE SAFARI SUIT MOVED SO close to DeDe that she could smell the Cherry Blend on his breath. “You’ve lost weight,” he smirked, flashing an uneven row of Vuitton-colored teeth.

  DeDe nodded. “How have you been, Carson?”

  “Hangin’ in there. A fat farm, huh?”

  “The Golden Door.” She smiled when she said it, without elaborating. He was pumping her, she knew, and she didn’t relish the thought of reading about her weight problem in Western Gentry magazine.

  “Well, it looks damn good.”

  “Thanks, Carson.”

  “What do you think of the artist?”

  That threw her for a moment. Paintings were the last thing she noticed at an opening. “Oh … a very individual style. Quite sensitive, I think …”

  “You and Beauchamp in the market?”

  “Oh … no, I don’t think so, Carson. Beauchamp and I are into Western art.”

  He sucked on his pipe, never taking his tiny eyes off her face. “This man’s Western,” he said finally.

  “I mean … you know … the old stuff.”

  “Yeah, the old stuff. Sometimes the old stuffs better.” He winked at her, chewing methodically on his pipestem until she acknowledged the joke with a thin smile.

  “Excuse me, will you, Carson? I think Beauchamp …”

  “I was hoping you’d tell me about the Fol de Rol.”

  “Oh … sure.” Her spirits brightened instantly. This could be a coup that would drive Shugie Sussman up the wall!

  Callas pulled a pad and pencil from the pocket of his safari suit. “You’re on the committee, right?”

  “Yeah. Me and a few others.”

  “Who’s performing this year?”

  “Oh, it’s fabulous, Carson! The theme is ‘Wine, Women and Song’ and we’ve got Domingo, Troyanos and Wixell….”

  “First names?”

  “Placido Domingo …”

  “Oh, sure …”

  “Tatiana Troyanos and Ingvar Wixell.” She stopped herself from spelling the names, remembering Callas’ vanity. He could look them up when he got back to his office.

  The columnist returned the pad and pencil to his pocket. “Fun evening, huh?”

  “Should be.”

  “But not as fun as most of yours?”

  “Uh … what, Carson?”

  The leer was back again. “I think you heard me, sweetheart.”

  The crowd in the gallery had grown thicker and noisier, but now the din seemed oddly remote. DeDe swallowed and forced herself to look blasé.

  “Carson, really! Sometimes you can be too much!”

  “I think we’ve got a lot in common.”

  “Carson, I don’t know what …”

  “Look … we’re both grownups. Nobody ever accused me of not knowing my way around an orgy … and I think I can recognize a kindred spirit when I see one.”

  God, she thought, how many times had he used that one?

  It was a standing joke in town that Callas had once unsuccessfully propositioned the entire cast of a local musical revue, starting with the women and working down to the less attractive men.

  “Carson … I love chatting with you, but I think I need a drink.”

  “One more question about the Fol de Rol?”

  “Sure.”

  “Are you gonna have the abortion before or after?”

  The glass slipped from her hand almost instantly, shattering as a punctuation to the horrid question. Callas dropped to his knees and helped her gather the pieces in a cocktail napkin.

  “Ah, c’mon! It’s not that bad, DeDe. I’m sure we can work it out … if you’d like to talk about it some night.” He stuffed his business card into the belt of her dress and stood up again.

  “Your friends are concerned, “ he added. “Surely there’s nothing wrong with that?”

  She didn’t look up, but continued picking up the pieces in silence.

  Discretion was too much to expect of Binky Gruen.

  How to Cure the Munchies

  BRIAN CRASHED AT MIDNIGHT AFTER A GRUELING SHIFT at Perry’s, only to wake up five hours later with a bitch of an appetite.

  Stumbling into the kitchen in his boxer shorts, he rummaged through the refrigerator for something to placate his growl.

  Ketchup. Mayonnaise. Two bluish Ball Park franks. And a jar of cocktail onions.

  Had he been stoned, he might have hacked it. (Once, after smoking half a joint of Maui Wowie, he’d been reduced to us
ing Crisco as a dip for Ritz crackers.)

  But not tonight.

  Tonight—hell, five o’clock in the morning!—he lusted for a Zim-burger. And a fat, greasy side order of fries, and maybe a chocolate malt or a …

  He excavated in his laundry bag until he found a rugby shirt that would pass the sniff test, climbed into Levi’s and Adidas, and almost sprinted out of the house into Barbary Lane.

  Hyde Street was freakishly quiet. Asleep in its iron cocoon, the ancient cable seemed more intrusive than ever. From the crest of Russian Hill, the wharf was a colorless landscape, a black-and-white postcard from the forties.

  Even the Porsches parked on Francisco suggested abandonment.

  It felt like the last scene of On the Beach.

  Zim’s, by contrast, was jarringly cheery. The all-night eatery was humming with efficient waitresses, frazzled insomniacs and the remnants of parties that couldn’t stop.

  Brian’s waitress was dressed in commercial country-western. Orange blouse and jumper. Orange-checked kerchief. Her name tag said “Candi Colma.”

  “ ‘The City of the Dead.’ “ Brian grinned as she slapped a napkin and fork in front of him.

  “What?”

  “You’re from Colma. Cemeteryland.”

  “South San Francisco, really. Just over the border. South San Francisco was too long to put on the name tag.”

  “Candi Colma sounds nicer, anyway.”

  “Really.” Her smile was nice, implying an intimacy that didn’t exist. She was in her late thirties, Brian guessed, but it showed only around the eyes. Her waist was small and firm, her legs wickedly long.

  Never mind the teased blond hair, he thought. You can’t get picky at five o’clock in the morning.

  After she had taken his order, he watched her move across the room. She walked like a woman who knew she had an audience.

  “Zimburger O.K.?”

  “Fine. Perfect.”

  “Anything else? Dessert, maybe?”

  “Whatcha got to offer?”

  “It’s on the menu there, sugar.”

  He flapped the menu shut and gave her his best Huck Finn grin. “I bet it’s not … sugar.”

  Moving closer to him, she tapped her pencil against her lower lip, cast her eyes left and right, and whispered, “I don’t get off till seven o’clock.”

  Brian shrugged. “It’s not when you get off, is it? It’s how.”

  Candi’s Camaro was parked around the corner next to the Maritime Museum. It was plum-colored and its bumper sticker said: I BRAKE FOR ANIMALS.

  When the seat-belt buzzers had stopped, she looked at him apologetically. “I’d feel better if we went to my place.”

  “Colma?”

  She nodded. “If you don’t mind.”

  “Christ, that’s a half hour’s drive!”

  “The traffic’s not bad when you’re going this direction.”

  “How the hell am I gonna get home?”

  “I’ll drive you. Look … I’ve got a roommate.”

  Brian slammed his palm against his forehead. “Oh, shit.”

  “No. It’s a girl. It’s cool, really. It’s just that she’ll worry if I’m not home.”

  “Call her, then.”

  She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Brian. If you’d like to forget it, I’ll understand.”

  “No. Let’s go.”

  “You don’t have to, if …”

  “I said let’s go, didn’t I?”

  She stuck the key in the ignition. “I live in a trailer. I hope you don’t mind.”

  He shook his head and stared out at the pewter surface of the early-morning bay.

  He was sure of it now.

  This had all happened before.

  The Hungry Eye

  NORMAN WAS WOLFING DOWN A BREAKFAST OF COLD egg rolls when the telephone rang.

  The noise startled him. He wasn’t used to receiving calls in the little house on the roof. “Hello.”

  “Mr. Williams?”

  He recognized the grating Midwestern twang immediately. “I hope this is important.”

  “Well, I … I was just wondering how it was going.”

  “Look, I gave you the number of my answering service, right?”

  “Mr. Williams … I’ve left three messages with your service in the last two …”

  “Do you think you’re my only client?”

  “Of course not … but I don’t see why you can’t …”

  “You’re perfectly free to find another man, if you want.” He knew it was safe to say that. He was too valuable to her now.

  “I have the utmost confidence in you …”

  “I’m working on three missing husbands right now … plus a runaway kid from Denver and more guys messing around on their wives than I can … You’re paying me by the job, remember? Not by the hour.”

  “I know.” Her tone was placating.

  “You could’ve blown the whole thing by calling me here. I’ve got no privacy at all in this cracker box. There could’ve been somebody sitting two feet away from me who would’ve figured out the …”

  “I know, Mr. Williams. I’m sorry I … Could you just tell me if you’ve found out anything?”

  He waited for a moment, then said, “It’s going O.K.”

  “Do you think …?”

  “I think she’s the one.”

  That rocked her. “God,” she said incredulously.

  “I have to go slow, though. It’s ticklish.”

  “I understand.”

  “People are sticky out here about privacy, you know.”

  “Of course.”

  “It should be a matter of weeks. I can tell you that.”

  “I hope you can understand why I’m so …”

  “Look … look at it this way, O.K.? You’ve waited thirty years already. Another month or so won’t kill you.”

  “I thought you said two weeks.”

  “Mrs. Ramsey!”

  “All right. O.K. Did you find out if the name is …”

  “Yeah. Phony. It’s an anagram.”

  “Anna Madrigal? You mean it spells …?”

  “Look, lady! Will you wait for my goddamn report!”

  “I won’t bother you again, Mr. Williams.”

  She hung up.

  The call unsettled him for the rest of the morning. Who the hell was he kidding?

  The kid from Denver had shown up weeks ago, canceling the most potentially lucrative job of his career. Most of his missing-persons clients had switched to slicker agencies, and he hadn’t been offered a philandering-husband case since 1972.

  He prolonged the Ramsey case because it was his only case… and he couldn’t confront the reality of failure.

  If things kept up like this for long, he might be selling Nutri-Vim for real.

  ‘Paul?”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s Norman.”

  “Hey, man … the proofs aren’t ready yet. I’ll call you when they’re ready, O.K.?”

  “I didn’t call about that. I thought … well, I thought you might wanna schedule the next session.”

  “Nah. Too soon. Besides … I think we’re gonna film this week.”

  “How’s it pay?”

  “Not bad. You wanna …?”

  “Yeah. I can arrange it.”

  “How much notice do you need?”

  “Couple days.”

  “Can do.”

  “I want the money in advance, Paul.”

  “You got it.”

  Trauma in a Travel-Eze

  THE TREASURE ISLAND TRAILER COURT WAS A DREARY little encampment just off El Camino Real at the Colma-South San Francisco border.

  Its nearest neighbor was Cypress Lawn Cemetery.

  As Candi’s Camaro swung off the highway into the court, Brian winced at the ugly row of Monopoly board houses snaking along a distant hillside.

  Rows.

  Peninsula people often condemned themselves to rows, thought Brian. Rows of houses, ro
ws of apartments, rows of tombstones …

  Ah, but not so at the Treasure Island Trailer Court. The Treasure Island Trailer Court had rues.

  French. Much classier.

  Rue 1, Rue 2, Rue 3 … Candi’s home was a faded pink Travel-Eze mired in a bed of succulents on Rue 8. An engraved redwood sign out front said: CANDI AND CHERYL.

  And that was all he needed to know.

  “Uh … Candi. There’s something I should tell you.”

  “Uh huh?”

  “You’re not gonna believe this, but … I think I know your roommate.”

  “Cheryl?”

  “Does she work at Zim’s too?”

  Candi grinned. “The morning shift. That’s O.K., Brian. We hardly ever see each other.”

  “I’ve been here before, Candi.”

  She squeezed his thigh. “I said it was O.K., didn’t I?”

  Apparently it was O.K. with Cheryl too.

  Wolfing down a breakfast of Froot Loops, she looked only mildly surprised when Brian slumped in with Candi. “Well, look what the cat drug in.”

  She was younger than Candi. Considerably. Brian did a heavy déjà vu number on her pouty Bernadette Peters mouth. He would have swapped on the spot, given the chance. “Small world, huh?”

  She grinned lewdly. “Not particularly. I’d say you’ve just run out of material.”

  Candi slammed her way into the bedroom, shouting over her shoulder at her roommate. “You’re late again, Cheryl. I’m not gonna keep makin’ excuses for you. It’s gettin’ embarrassing.”

  “I was waiting for my fuckin’ wig, if you don’t mind!”

  Silence.

  “Did you hear me?”

  The voice from the bedroom was low and menacing. “Cheryl, come in here a minute.”

  “I’m finishing my Froot …”

  “Goddammit, Cheryl!”

  Cheryl pushed her chair back noisily, rolled her eyes at Brian and left the room. A muffled catfight followed. When Cheryl reemerged several minutes later, she was wearing a Zim’s uniform and Candi’s head of hair.

  “Don’t break the bed,” she purred to Brian, goosing him as she walked out the door.

  “Brian?”

  “Huh?”