Further Tales of the City (7 page)

T
HE MAN ON THE LEDGE WAS STILL SMILING UP AT PRUE,
waiting for an answer to his question.

“Uh … what?” she mumbled. Her right hand, meanwhile, burrowed deep into her bag until it closed around her tiny Tiffany rape whistle. If he made so much as a move, she would …

“I said … you got time for coffee?”

He gestured behind him towards the shack, a makeshift wooden structure straight out of Zane Grey. A thin curl of smoke rose from a rusty stovepipe that protruded from the building like an exclamation point.

There was coffee inside?

Prue cleared her throat. “That dog is mine,” she said evenly. “The one that ran into your … into that place.” Her face was crimson now; her throat was dry as chalk.

The man continued to smile, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his baggy woolen trousers. “That so?” he replied, using a tone that seemed to taunt more than inquire. “S’nice dog, ol’ Whitey.”

Whitey?
Had this derelict tried to stake a claim on Vuitton by giving him a new name? His proper name and owner were
clearly engraved on his dog tags. Even his collar—a Christmas present from Father Paddy Starr—had been crafted out of Louis Vuitton vinyl.

“I was here several weeks ago,” Prue exclaimed feebly. “He ran away from me down in the tree ferns. I’m so relieved that he’s safe.”

The man nodded, still smiling.

“If you’ve been … taking care of him,” Prue continued, “I’ll be happy to reimburse you for any expenses you might have incurred.”

The man laughed. “But no coffee, huh?”

Prue’s hand tightened on the whistle. “Really, I’m … that’s awfully kind … but, um … my driver … that is, I have a friend waiting for me down at the conservatory. Thank you, though. That’s very nice.”

The man shrugged, then turned and entered the shack, closing the door behind him.

Prue waited.

And waited.

This was really
too
annoying. What did he think he was doing, anyway? It would be easy enough to prove ownership of the dog, to have this tramp arrested for holding Vuitton against his will.

Prue considered her options: She could walk back to the conservatory and wait for her driver to return; he was imposing enough to intimidate this man into releasing Vuitton. Or, of course, she could simply call the police.

On the other hand, why compound the nuisance by official intervention? Surely this was something she could handle on her own.

Clutching at shrubbery for support, she made her way down the sandy slope until she reached the ledge where the shack stood. It was amazing really, this secret cul-de-sac, virtually invisible to the casual passerby, yet still within hearing distance of the traffic down below on Kennedy Drive.

Prue strode purposefully towards the door of the shack—so purposefully, in fact, that she snagged a heel on a root and tumbled to the ground, scattering the contents of her purse. Mortified, she scooped up her belongings as quickly as possible and staggered to her feet.

She rapped on the door.

The first thing she heard was Vuitton’s off-key bark. Then came the sound of wood scraping wood as a homemade latch was undone.

The door swung open, revealing the same smiling face, a face made almost handsome by high cheekbones, a strong jawline and unusual amber-colored skin. The stranger’s longish dark hair was combed neatly into place. (Had it been before?) He appeared to be in his late forties.

“That’s better,” he said.

Prue tried to placate him. “I’m sorry if I offended you in some way. I’ve been so anxious about my dog. I’m sure you can understand.”

Vuitton poked his long, pale muzzle through the crack in the door. Prue reached down to stroke him. “Baby,” she cooed. “It’s O.K., Mommy’s here.”

“You got proof?” asked the man.

“Look at him,” said Prue. “He knows me. Don’t you, baby? His name is Vuitton. It’s on the collar. For that matter,
my
name is on the collar.”

“What’s your name?”

“Giroux. Prue Giroux.”

The man extended his hand. “Mine’s Luke. Come on in.”

W
HEN PRUE ENTERED THE SHACK, HER MIND
raced back to Grass Valley … and to the tree house her brother Ben had built on the hill behind the barn.

Ben’s tree house had been a holy place, a monk’s cell for a thirteen-year-old that was incontestably off limits to his little sister and her friends.

One day, however, when Ben was at the picture show, Prudy Sue had climbed into the forbidden aerie and perused, with pounding heart, the secret icons of her brother’s adolescence: dirty dime novels, joy buzzers, a Lucky Strikes magazine ad featuring Maureen O’Hara.

Today, forty years later, Prue couldn’t help remembering the surprising
order
of Ben’s lair. There had been something almost touching about the neat rows of Tom Swift books, the hand-sewn burlap curtains on the tiny windows, the quartz rocks displayed on orange crates as if they were diamonds in a vault….

“I wasn’t expecting company,” said Luke. “You’ll have to excuse this.”

“This” was a single room, about six-by-ten-feet, furnished with wooden packing crates, an Army surplus cot, and a large chunk of foam rubber which appeared to function as a couch. A rock-lined pit in the packed earth floor was filled with graying embers. On the grate above the fire sat a blue enamel coffee pot.

The man picked up the pot and poured coffee into a styrofoam cup. “You take cream? I only have the fake stuff, I’m afraid.”

“Uh … what? … oh, no thank you.” Prue was still absorbing the room. How long had he been here, anyway? Did the park people know about this?

The man read her mind and winked. “You’ll get used to it,” he said. “Sweet ’n Low?”

“Yes, please.”

He cracked open the pink packet like an egg, shook it into the coffee and handed her the cup. “I thought you might like to see where your dog’s been living, that’s all.”

Vuitton, in fact, having greeted his mistress at the door, had returned to a bed of rags in a corner near the fire. He looked up and wagged his tail at her appeasingly, apologizing perhaps for such an effortless abandonment of his Nob Hill lifestyle.

Prue blew on her coffee, then looked about her. “This is … just fascinating,” she said. She meant it, too.

The man chuckled. “Every kid loves a playhouse,” he said.

Then he
is
like Ben, thought Prue.

A further examination of the room revealed additional touches of boyish whimsy. Ball fringe over the bed, forming a faux-canopy. A can of sharpened pencils on a shelf above the “sofa.” A soot-streaked map of the city tacked to the wall above the fire.

Over the doorway hung a plywood plaque, its lettering laboriously crafted in bent twigs:

THOSE WHO DO NOT
REMEMBER THE PAST
ARE CONDEMNED
TO REPEAT IT

Prue smiled when she read it. “That’s nice,” she said.

“Santayana,” replied the man.
“Life of Reason.”

“Excuse me?”

The man seemed to study her for a moment, then said quietly: “Why don’t you take your dog now?”

“Oh … of course. I didn’t mean to keep you.”

The man went to the bed of rags and roused the wolfhound. “C’mon, Whitey. Time to go, boy.” Vuitton rose awkwardly to his feet and licked the man’s hand excitedly. “He thinks we’re going exploring,” explained his keeper. “I made a leash for him, if you want it.”

He opened a box next to Vuitton’s bed. It contained canned dog food, a battered grooming brush, and a length of rope with a hand-made leather tag reading
WHITEY
. The top of the box said
WHITEY
in bent twigs.

Earlier, Prue had felt real resentment about this alien name; now, for some reason, she thought she might cry.

She fumbled in her bag. “Please … I insist on reimbursing you for your …”

“No,” said the man sharply. Then, in a sober tone: “The pleasure was mine.”

“Well …” She looked about her, suddenly at a loss for words. The man clipped the rope on Vuitton’s collar and handed it to Prue.

“Thank you,” she said as earnestly as possible. “Thank you so much … Luke, isn’t it?”

The man nodded. “If you’re ever back in these parts, I wouldn’t mind a visit from him.”

“Of course, of course …” She had nothing further to say as she led Vuitton away from the shack and up the steep, sandy slope. The wolfhound went willingly, barking his goodbye when they reached the top of the rise.

But the door of the shack was closed again.

N
ED LOCKWOOD’S PICKUP WAS PARKED ON LEAVENWORTH
when Mary Ann came down the rickety wooden stairway from Barbary Lane. He offered her a jaunty salute, cupping his huge hand against his forehead. His bald pate was tanned the color of saddle leather.

“He’ll be down in a minute,” she said. “He’s trying to choose between fifteen different shades of Lacostes.”

Ned grinned and threw up his hands, bringing them to rest on the steering wheel. “So where are you off to?”

Mary Ann mugged. “Work. Not all of us get to spend the weekend with a movie star.” She held up a large Hefty Bag. “Care for a darling bow-wow?”

Ned looked into the bag. “Stuffed animals? What for?”

“My show. What else?”

“They’re some sort of bargain, huh?”

“Factory seconds. God, it’s so depressing, Ned. Get me out of here, will you? Abduct me or something. Hasn’t________got an extra cabana he could hide me in?”

Ned smiled. “I’m afraid it’s one of his all-boy weekends.”

“How dumb,” said Mary Ann.

“I think so, too. But he’s sort of an old-world fag.”

“Big deal. Couldn’t I be an old-world fag hag?”

Ned threw back his head and laughed. “I wish he could be that comfortable about it.”

Mary Ann managed a smile herself. “So you’re leaving me to my misery, huh?”

“You’re a star,” said Ned. “Stars aren’t supposed to be miserable.”

“Who’s a star?” A cheap ploy to fish for praise, but right now she’d take anything she could get.

The nurseryman shrugged. “My aunt in the East Bay says you’re a star. She watches your show all the time.”

“Harlequin glasses, right?”

Ned grinned.

“Not to mention Harlequin
books.
And a bedroom full of yarn poodles that she made on her doodle-loom. Am I right?”

“Actually,” said Ned, “she makes braided rugs out of old neckties.”

“Right,” nodded Mary Ann.

Michael appeared at the top of the stairway, decked out in an apricot Polo shirt, white linen trousers and emerald green Topsiders. “Get him,” said Ned. “Is that L.A. or what?”

Michael presented himself to Mary Ann for inspection.

“Very nice,” she remarked, “but you’ll be pitted out by the time you reach the pea soup place.”

“Then I’ll
change
at the pea soup place.” He pecked her on the mouth and sprang into the truck. “If I’m not back in three days, send in the Mounties.”

“Make him wear a bathing suit,” Mary Ann instructed Ned.

“That’s a tall order,” said the nurseryman.

“I know,” replied Mary Ann. “He almost burned his butt off last week at Lands End.”

As usual, there wasn’t a legal parking space within five blocks of the station. She finally settled on a commercial zone in an alley off Van Ness, leaving an outdated press pass on the dashboard of the car.

She hurried past the security guard, eating Cheetos at the front desk, and boarded the elevator where she stabbed the button for the third floor.

She checked her Casio. Two-thirty-eight. God, she was pushing it these days. Time was when she would show up two hours early for the three o’clock broadcast. Time was she had actually found this crap
exciting.

Bambi Kanetaka was leaving the dressing room when Mary Ann arrived.

“Hi,” said Mary Ann. “Why so early?”

“We’re shooting on location,” the anchorperson replied breathlessly. “Larry’s found some woman who used to date the Trailside Killer. What’s in the bag?”

It was almost uncanny, Mary Ann decided, how Bambi could find her way straight to the soft spot. “Just some seconds,” she muttered.

“Awww,” said Bambi, peeking into the bag. “They’re
precious.
Honestly, you get to do the most fun things, Mary Ann. I get so tired of all the …” She sighed world-wearily. “You know, the heavy stuff.”

The makeup man, who had just returned from his grandmother’s funeral in Portland, was done up in gold chains and black Spandex—his idea of mourning garb.

“… and so I went to the funeral home and I
insisted
… look up, would you, hon … good … I insisted that they open the casket … a little to the left now … so they opened it for me, and
what
do you think they had on Grandma’s lips? TITTY PINK! I mean,
really …
head up, hon … so I said just let me handle this because
my
grandma is getting nothing less than Cocksucker Red when they put her in the ground….”

Denny spied Mary Ann and stuck his head through the doorway. “There you are.”

She hated “There you are” when it meant “Where have you been?”

“That woman’s on the line again,” said the associate producer.

“What woman?”

“The drunk. She spelled her name this time. It’s
Halcyon,
not Harrison.”

“God,” said Mary Ann.

“Ring a bell?”

“I think I used to work for her husband.” She checked the wall clock: six minutes to air time. “Tell her I’ll call her back after the intro.”

M
ARY ANN DELIVERED HER SPIEL ON STUFFED ANIMALS
in less than three minutes, which meant that she had to spend the same amount of time getting gushy about
Say One for Me.

It wasn’t easy. She had never been able to buy Bing Crosby as a priest. Or Rosalind Russell as a Mother Superior. Or Helen Reddy as a nun. Hollywood had some pretty funny ideas about what Catholics were supposed to look like.

“Mary Ann, you were too yummy for words. I watched you on the monitor.”

It was Father Paddy Starr, San Francisco’s idea of a priest, hell-bent for Studio B as Mary Ann beat a hasty retreat.

“Thanks, Father. Break a leg.” It sounded weird, saying that to a priest, but this one was in show business, after all. Father Paddy’s late-night show,
Honest to God,
was taped every afternoon following Mary Ann’s show.

Back at her cubbyhole, she checked to see if Denny had left a number for Mrs. Halcyon. He hadn’t, of course, but she finally got it out of Directory Assistance after two overlapping recorded voices—one male, one female—chastised her for doing so.

She dialed the number.

“Halcyon Hill.”

Mary Ann recognized the voice from her days at Halcyon Communications when she had spent a fair amount of time relaying messages between Edgar Halcyon and his wife. “Emma?”

“Yes’m?”

“This is Mary Ann Singleton. Remember me?”

“‘Course I remember you! It’s mighty good to hear you,
mighty
good! Oh Lord, I could fairly bust, Mary Ann. Jesus looks out for his children, if we only just …” There was a scuffling noise in the background. “Give me that!” snapped a voice that Mary Ann recognized as Frannie Halcyon’s.

“Mary Ann?” Now the voice had softened to a matronly purr.

“Yes, Mrs. Halcyon. What a nice surprise.”

“Well … I’m just a
big
fan of yours.”

“How sweet.”

“I am. Truly. You’re a very talented young lady.”

“That’s so nice. Thank you so much.”

A long pause, and then: “I … uh … I called because I hoped you’d be able to have lunch with us … with me, that is, on Sunday. The weather’s just lovely down here now and the pool is … well, you could bring your bathing suit if you like and …”

“I’d be delighted, Mrs. Halcyon.” Mary Ann almost giggled. Michael’s get-away to L.A. had made her yearn for escape, and she and Brian hadn’t had a good, cheap mini-vacation in a long time. This was practically a Godsend. “Would it be O.K. if I brought a friend?”

“Oh … I … actually, I’d rather you didn’t, Mary Ann.”

“Of course …”

“I’m really not prepared to entertain more than one.”

“Fine. I understand.” She didn’t, actually, but now her curiosity was aroused.

“Just a little … girl talk. You and I have got so much to catch up on.”

Mary Ann was thrown. She and Frannie Halcyon had absolutely
nothing
to catch up on. Why was this sweet, but rummy, society dowager talking to her like an equal?

Well, she thought, the poor woman lost a daughter in Guyana. That was reason enough to be a little indulgent. Besides, she had a pool. That was an offer no San Franciscan could refuse.

“What time shall I be there?” asked Mary Ann.

Larry and Bambi were returning to the station when Mary Ann left the building. It was all they could do to keep their hands off one another, she observed.

“Great tie,” said Mary Ann, breezing past them in the lobby. He was wearing the one with the Porsche emblem in a repetitive pattern.

“Hey,” said Larry, “thanks.”

The only fun thing about assholes, Mary Ann decided, was that they almost never noticed when you were calling them assholes. “How was the Trailside Killer’s girlfriend?” she asked Bambi.

“Shaken,” said the anchorperson.

“Mmm. I’d imagine.”

Ever so subtly, Larry steered Bambi toward the elevator. “Stay out of this business,” he told Mary Ann. “It ain’t a bit pretty.”

“Mmm.”

“Really,” he added. “You’re better off out of it.”

She cursed him all the way back to Barbary Lane.