Further Tales of the City (14 page)

I
T WAS LATE AFTERNOON, THE TIME OF DAY WHEN SUNSHINE
streamed through the green celluloid shades at the Twin Peaks and made the patrons look like fish in an overpopulated aquarium.

Michael sat on a window seat, against the glass—like the snail in the aquarium, he decided, passive, voyeuristic, moving at his own pace. He was still wearing his God’s Green Earth overalls.

The man next to him was wearing a Walkman. When he saw Michael watching him, he took off the tiny earphones and held them out to him. “Wanna listen?”

Michael smiled appreciatively. “Who is it?”

“Abba.”

Abba?
This guy was built like a brick shithouse, with an elephantine mustache and smoldering brown eyes. What was he doing hooked up to
that
sort of smarmy Euro-pop? On the other hand, he was also wearing a Qiana shirt. Maybe he just didn’t know any better.

Michael avoided the confrontation. “Actually,” he said, “I’m not big on Walkmans. They make me kind of claustrophobic. I like to be able to get away from my music.”

“I use them at work mostly,” said the man, “when there’s a lot of paperwork. I smoke a doobie at lunch, come back, put these babies on and go with the flow.”

“Yeah. I can see how that might help.”

The man laid the Walkman on the table. “You’re in the chorus, aren’t you?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I came to your welcome home,” said the man. “What a scene!”

“Wasn’t it great?” grinned Michael. Five days later, he was still tingling with the exhilaration of that moment. Several thousand people had mobbed their buses at the corner of 18th and Castro.

“I saw you kiss the ground,” said the man.

Michael shrugged sheepishly. “I like it here, I guess.”

“Yeah … me too.” He fiddled with the Walkman, obviously searching for something to say. “You don’t like Abba, huh?”

Michael shook his head. “Sorry,” he replied, as pleasantly as possible.

“What sort of stuff do you like?”

“Well … lately I’ve been getting into country-western.” Michael laughed. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“Redneck music,” said the man.

“I know. I used to hate the crap when I was a kid in Orlando. Maybe it’s just the old bit about gay people imitating their oppressors. Like those guys who spend their days fighting police brutality and their nights dressing up like cops.”

The man smiled faintly. “Never done that, huh?”

“Never,” said Michael. “Was that strike two?”

The man shook his head. “I’ve never done it either.”

“Well, then … see how much we have in common?” Michael extended his hand. “I’m Michael Tolliver.”

“Bill Rivera.”
Latin,
thought Michael. This was getting better all the time.

“I have a friend,” Michael continued, “who used to go to The Trench on uniform night, because he loved having sex with people who looked like cops or Nazis or soldiers. One night he went home with a guy in cop drag, and the guy had this incredible loft south of Market, with neon tubing over the
bed and high-tech everything … to die, right? Only my friend didn’t say a word, because he was supposed to be a prisoner, and the other guy was supposed to be a cop, and a prisoner doesn’t say ‘What a fabulous apartment’ to a cop. He said he could hardly wait for the sex to be over so he could ask the guy where he got his pin spots from. I don’t have that kind of self-discipline, I suppose. I wanna be able to say ‘What a fabulous apartment’ first thing. Is that too much to ask?”

The big mustache bristled as he smiled. “It is at
my
house.”

Michael laughed. “It doesn’t have to be fabulous.”

“Good.”

“It doesn’t even have to be
your
apartment. Mine’s available.”

“Where do you live?”

“Russian Hill.”

“C’mon,” said the man, downing his drink, “mine’s closer.”

He lived on 17th Street in the Mission. His tiny studio was blandly furnished, with occasional endearing lapses into kitsch (a Mike Mentzer poster, a Lava Lite, a plastic cable car planter containing a half-dead philodendron).

Michael was enormously relieved. Bill Rivera wasn’t tasteless—he was taste free. Gay men with
no
taste were often the hottest ones of all. Besides, thought Michael, if we ever kept house together, he’d probably let me do the decorating.

Then he spotted the handcuffs on the dresser.

“Uh … pardon me?”

Bill looked up. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, removing his Hush Puppies. “Yeah?”

Michael held out the handcuffs, as if presenting Exhibit A. “Aren’t into this, huh?”

Bill shook his head. “It’s just a living.”

“Uh …?”

“I’m a cop. Does that mean you wanna leave?”

“Now wait a minute …” Michael was dumbfounded. Bill stood up and removed something from a dresser drawer, holding it out to his accuser.

“My badge, O.K.?”

Michael looked at it, then back at Bill, then back at the badge again.

“O.K.?” asked Bill.

“O.K.,” said Michael.

Almost numb, he sat down on the bed next to the policeman and began unlacing his shoes. “What a fabulous apartment,” he said.

P
RUE HAD ALREADY RIPPED THREE SHEETS OF PAPER
from her typewriter when her secretary stepped into the study.

“It’s Father Paddy,” she said. “He says it won’t take long.”

Prue groaned softly and picked up the phone. “Yes, Father?”

“I know you’re on deadline, darling, but I need you to answer a few questions.”

“Shoot.”

“How does your schedule look? The next three weeks or so.”

Prue hesitated. “What are you up to?”

“Tut-tut. Aren’t we snippy this morning. Just answer the question, my child.”

Prue checked her appointment book. “O.K.,” she said. “Fairly slow, actually.”

“Good. Keep it that way.”

“Father …”

“And tell your Mountain Man not to fill up his dance card either. I’ve plans for the two of you.”

“What?”

“Never you mind. In good time, my child, in good time.”

“Father, I don’t know what you’re cooking up, but you might as well know that Luke is not … well, he’s not the sort of man who’ll take orders from other people.”

“Even you?”

“Of course not!”

“But, surely, if he
really
cares about you, Prue … if he wants to be part of your life, then he should be willing to meet you on some … middle ground.”

“We’ve already talked about that. There is no middle ground.”

“Ah, but I think there is! Something that will appeal to his love of nature and to your sense of propriety. For God’s sake, girl … are you happy?”

A long silence, and then: “No.”

“No,” repeated Father Paddy. “You are not. And
why
are you not happy? Because you’re in love with that creature, and you want to be with him night and day.” The cleric paused dramatically, then lowered his voice for emphasis. “I’m going to give you that, darling. I’m going to give you exactly what you want.”

Prue sighed audibly. “If you won’t tell me what it is, how in the world can I …”

“All right, all right …”

So he told her.

T
HE LINE FOR
RAIDERS OF THE LOST ARK
WAS SO HOPELESSLY
serpentine that Mary Ann and Brian decided to forego their movie plans and watch television together at home.

“I like this better, anyway,” said Mary Ann, lifting her McChicken sandwich from its styrofoam coffin. “I haven’t had a good TV-and-junk-food pig-out in ages.”

Brian swallowed a mouthful of Big Mac, then mopped up with the back of his hand. “It fits the budget, anyway.” He cast an impish glance at Mary Ann. “But you don’t have to worry about that now, do you?”

Mary Ann frowned. “Why do you keep riding me about that?”

Brian shrugged. “Why do you have to be so secretive about it? Who am I gonna tell, huh? Some gin-soaked old society dame puts you on her payroll, and you run around acting like I need a National Security Clearance just to talk to you.”

“C’mon, Brian. You’re the one who keeps bringing it up.”

“Gimme a hint, then, and I’ll shut up.”

Mary Ann hesitated. “If I tell you …”

Brian beamed triumphantly.

“If
I tell you, Brian, you’ve got to promise me it won’t go any further than this. I mean it, Brian. This is deadly serious.”

Brian made a poker face and held up his hand. “My solemn oath. A lovers’ pact.”

“I haven’t even told Michael.”

Brian bowed. “I’m deeply honored.”

“DeDe Day is back in town,” said Mary Ann.

“Wait a minute …”

Mary Ann nodded. “Mrs. Halcyon’s daughter. The one who disappeared from Guyana.”

Brian whistled. “Holy shit.”

“She’s been living in Cuba for the past two-and-a-half years.”

“What about … whatshername … Mona’s old girlfriend?”

“D’orothea. They were living together … along with the twins that DeDe had by the delivery boy at Jiffy’s. D’orothea’s still in Cuba. DeDe’s hiding out in Hillsborough now. Her mother hired me to handle the press when DeDe breaks the story.”

Brian’s brow furrowed.
“When
she breaks it? You went to Hillsborough weeks ago. Why hasn’t she broken it already? What’s she hiding out for?”

“That’s the part I’m fuzzy on. She claims she wants to talk to some Temple members about something. She won’t tell me what it is yet.”

Brian smiled sardonically. “She’s probably looking for a good publisher. Half of those Jonestown people are writing books.”

Mary Ann shook her head. “It’s much more serious than that. Besides,
I’m
writing the book when the time comes.”

“Good.”

“I just don’t know
what
I’ll be writing.”

“Not so good.”

“You’re telling me! Something big is missing, Brian … something she lives with night and day. I can almost feel it in the room with us when we’re talking.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know.” Mary Ann shivered suddenly. “God, it gives me the creeps. I agreed to keep quiet about everything
until next week. Then I’m free to negotiate with the station. She’s promised to fill me in as soon as she finds out … whatever she’s trying to find out.”

“It sounds like she’s afraid of recriminations.”

“I’ve thought of that,” said Mary Ann, “but it doesn’t really make any sense. If the other survivors are working the talk show circuit, as you pointed out, what has
DeDe
got to be afraid of?”

“She could be just plain wacko.”

“I don’t think so,” said Mary Ann. “She’s a pretty solid person.”

“That airhead debutante …?”

“She’s changed a lot, Brian. I guess the children did it. She
lives
for them now. She may be a little paranoid about their safety, but that seems perfectly normal after what she’s been through.”

“I think you’re the one who should be paranoid,” said Brian.

“Why?”

“What’s to stop another reporter from stumbling on this one before you break it?”

Mary Ann winced. “I know, but she’s being as careful as possible. She hides in the guest wing whenever visitors come. And she doesn’t leave the house that much.”

“Just to visit Temple members, huh?”

She saw his point all too well.

They were in bed watching Tom Snyder when the phone rang.

Mary Ann answered it. “Hello.”

“Mary Ann … it’s DeDe.” Her voice sounded small and terrified. Mary Ann glanced at the digital clock on the dresser. It said 1:23.

“Hi,” said Mary Ann. “Are you O.K.?” She assumed that DeDe was having those bad dreams again.

“I need to see you,” said DeDe.

“Sure. Of course. When?”

“Tomorrow morning?”

“Could we make it the afternoon? Brian and I had planned on …”

“Please.
” The word reverberated like a scream in a tomb. It was all Mary Ann needed to hear.

“Where?” she asked.

“Here. Halcyon Hill. I don’t want to leave the house.”

“DeDe, what on earth has …?”

“Just come, O.K.? Bring your tape recorder. We can eat breakfast here. I’m really sorry about this. I’ll explain everything in the morning.”

When Mary Ann set the receiver down, Brian smiled at her sweetly. “Scratch the roller-skating, huh?”

“I’m afraid so,” she said.

“What’s up?”

“I wish I knew,” said Mary Ann.

I
T TOOK PRUE GIROUX EXACTLY TWELVE HOURS TO SUCCUMB
completely to the wild romanticism of Father Paddy’s scheme. The following morning she hurried out to the park and made her own pitch, snuggled cozily in Luke’s arms.

He gazed at the ceiling in stony silence.

“Well?” asked Prue.

“You would do that?” he said finally.

“I would if I thought it would bring us closer together.”

“Is that what you think?”

“It might.”

Another long silence.

“Besides, if it doesn’t work out, what harm has been done? We’ve got nothing to lose, Luke.”

“I hate the bourgeoisie,” he replied sternly. “I’ve spent most of my life subverting it … or running from it.”

The columnist bristled. “Am
I
the bourgeoisie? Is that what you’re telling me?”

He leaned down and kissed her forehead. “Unlike a lot of good things, you’re best when taken out of context.”

“But … this
would
be out of context. Just us, if that’s the
way we want it. Two weeks that belong to
us,
Luke.”

“And then what?”

“I don’t know. Does it matter? Aren’t you the one who said to forget about forever?”

She had him there. He smiled at her in concession, then shook his head slowly. “Prue, I have no clothes for that sort of thing, none of the …”

“I can take care of that.”

“I don’t want your charity.”

“It’s a loan, then. It all reverts to me after two weeks. For God’s sake, you’re not selling your
soul,
Luke.”

“That remains to be seen.”

“Look,” she snapped, “you keep telling me that I’d be ashamed to be seen with you. Well then …
prove
it, if you can!”

“Prue …”

“The truth is … you’re ashamed to be seen with
me.
You’re such a snob, Luke. You’re the biggest snob I ever met!”

“If it helps you to think that, then go ahead.”

“What have you got to lose, Luke?”

He rolled away from her.

“Do you remember what you said that first night? You said you would love me unconditionally, at my pleasure … as little or as much as I wanted. Well … this is what I want. Do this for me, Luke.”

“I meant
here,”
he said quietly, speaking to the wall.

But she knew she had won.