Tales of the City 01 - Tales of the City

time.”
    “Yes … you know … business.”
    “Yes. Busy, busy.”
    His brow was drenched again. “Can I see you tonight, Mrs. Miller? I know it isn’t much notice.”
    “Oh … well, just a minute, Mr. Halcyon. Let me check my book.” She left the phone. Edgar could hear her rummaging around. “All right,” she said at last. “Eight o’clock, O.K.?”
    “Thank you so much.”
    “Not at all, Mr. Halcyon.”
    He felt much better now. Ruby Miller meant hope to him, however vague. He decided to have a drink at the bar in the Cartoon Room.
    “Edgar, you old bastard, why aren’t you home pruning the rosebushes?”
    It was Roger Manigault, senior vice president of Pacific Excelsior. The Manigault tennis courts bordered on the Halcyon apple orchard in Hillsborough.
    Edgar smiled. “Past your bedtime too, Booter.” The nickname was a hangover from Stanford days, when Manigault had been beatified on the gridiron. Nothing since then had pleased him.
    He was currently angered by the demise of the Stanford Indian.
    “Everybody’s so goddamn sensitive nowadays! Indians aren’t Indians anymore … oh, no! They’re Native Americans. I spent ten years learning to say ‘Negroes’ right, and now they’ve turned into Blacks. Goddammit, I don’t know what to call the maid anymore!”
    Edgar took a slug of his drink and nodded. He had heard it all before.
    “Now, you take the word ‘gay,’ Edgar. That used to be a perfectly normal word that meant something wholesome and fun, goddammit! Jesus God! Look at it now!” He polished off his scotch and slammed the glass down. “A decent young couple is almost embarrassed to mention they’ve been to the Gaieties!”
    “Good point,” said Edgar.
    “Damn right! Say … speaking of that, Roger and Suzie say they bumped into Beauchamp and DeDe at the Gaieties. Beauchamp’s a damn good dancer, Suzie says … hustling or whatever they call it.”
    Hustling is probably the word, Edgar thought. He had wondered about Beauchamp and Suzie on several occasions. “Excuse me, Booter. I promised Frannie I’d be home early tonight.”
    For the lies she required, Ruby Miller might as well have been Edgar’s mistress.
    Up the hill at the University Club, Beauchamp sought solace from Peter Cipriani, heir to a fabled San Mateo flower fortune.
    “I’m getting paranoid, I guess.”
    “The Old Man again?”
    “Yeah. He put the screws to me about DeDe.”
    “He’s suspicious?”
    “Always.”
    “What does DeDe think?”
    “You’re assuming she knows how to.”
    “She’s a tad thick, but she does pay for your Wilkes Bashford addiction … and she’s got a nice box.”
    Beauchamp frowned.
    “At the opera, Beauchamp.”
    “Very funny.”
    “I thought so.”
    “I didn’t come here to talk about my wife, Peter.”
    “Hmm … that’s funny. Everybody else did.”
    Silence.
    “Sorry. Cheap shot. Wanna hear about the Bachelors Ball?”
    “Do I look like I do?”
    “Well, we missed you, anyway. Actually, we missed your Navy dress whites. They were always just the right touch. Very Gilbert and Sullivan.”
    “Thank you.”
    “The Prune Prince wore his great-uncle’s opera tails this year.”
    “John Stonecypher?”
    “The one. Are you ready for this? He spilled a bottle of amyl in the breast pocket.”
    “C’mon!
    “While he was dancing with Madge!”
    “What did she do?”
    “Oh … she just kept waltzing around like a Cotillion deb, presumably pretending that all her dance partners smell like dirty sweat socks…. You’re going to her do tonight, aren’t you?”
    “Shit!”
    “Forgot, huh?”
    “DeDe will shit a brick!” He downed his drink. “I’m off.”
    “More than likely,” said Peter.

The Wrath of DeDe
    D EDE WAS SITTING AT HER LOUIS QUINZE ESCRITOIRE making notations in her Louis Vuitton checkbook.
    “You forgot about Madge’s party, didn’t you?”
    “I hauled ass to get here.”
    “It starts in half an hour.”
    “Then we’ll be late. Pull in your claws. Your old man’s been bitching at me all day.”
    “Did you make the Adorable presentation?”
    “No. He did.”
    “Why?”
    “Why don’t you tell mei”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    “He was pissed, DeDe. Royally.”
    Silence.
    “You know why, of course.”
    DeDe looked down at her checkbook.
    Beauchamp persisted. “He was pissed because his darling daughter called him up last night and told him I was a son-of-a-bitch.”
    “I didn’t do anything