Tales of the City 01 - Tales of the City

of …”
    “Bullshit!”
    “I was worried, Beauchamp. It was after midnight. I tried the club and Sam’s and Jack’s. I … panicked. I thought Daddy might know where you were.”
    “Of course. Little Beauchamp doesn’t make a fucking move without checking with the Great White Father!”
    “Don’t talk about Daddy like that.”
    “Oh … fuck him! I don’t need his permission to breathe. I don’t need him for a goddamn thing!”
    “Oh? Daddy would be interested to hear that.”
    Silence.
    “Why don’t we call him up and tell him?”
    “DeDe …”
    “Me or you?”
    “DeDe … I’m sorry. I’m tired. It’s been a bitch of a day.”
    “I’ll bet.” She moved to the hall mirror and made last-minute adjustments to her makeup. “How’s Little Miss Whatshername?”
    “Who?”
    “Daddy’s secretary. Your little … after-work amusement.”
    “You’ve gotta be kidding!”
    “No. I don’t think so.”
    “Mary Ann Singleton?”
    “Is that her name? How quaint.”
    “Christ! I hardly know her.”
    “Apparently that hasn’t stopped you before.”
    “She’s your father’s secretary!”
    “And she’s not exactly an eyesore.”
    “I can’t help that, can I?”
    DeDe pursed her lips to blot her lipstick. She looked at her husband. “Look … I’ve had it with this. You dropped off the face of the earth last night.”
    “I told you. I was at the club.”
    “Well, quelle coincidence! You were at the club when you stood me up for the reception at the de Young last Wednesday and last Friday when we missed the Telfairs’ party at Beach Blanket Babylon.”
    “We’ve seen it five times.”
    “That isn’t the point.”
    Beauchamp laughed bitterly. “You are too much. You really are…. Where in God’s name did you dig this one up?”
    “I’ve got eyes, Beauchamp.”
    “Where? When?”
    “Last week. I was shopping with Binky at La Remise du Soleil.”
    “How very chic of you.”
    “You were crossing the street with her.”
    “Mary Ann?”
    “Yes.”
    “That is incriminating.”
    “It was lunchtime, and you were looking very chummy.”
    “You missed the good part. You should have been there earlier when I ravaged her in the redwood grove behind the Transamerica Pyramid.”
    “You’re not gonna smartass your way out of this one, Beauchamp.”
    “I’m not even trying.” He snatched the keys to the Porsche from the hall table. “I stopped with you a long time ago.”
    “Tell me,” said DeDe, following him out the door.

The Landlady’s Dinner
    M ARY ANN STOPPED BY MONA’S ON HER WAY TO Mrs. Madrigal’s for dinner.
    “Wanna mellow out?” asked Mona.
    “It depends.”
    “Coke?”
    “I’m on a diet. Have you got a Tab or Fresca?”
    “I don’t believe you.” Mona placed a hand mirror on her cable spool table. “Even you must have seen Porgy and Bess?”
    “So?” Mary Ann’s voice cracked. Mona was spading white powder from a vial with a tiny silver spoon. The handle of the spoon was engraved with an ecology emblem.
    “Sportin’ Life,” said Mona. “Happy dust. This stuff is an American institution.” She made a line of powder across the surface of the mirror. “All the silent film stars snorted. Why do you think they looked like this?” She moved her head and arms spastically, like Charlie Chaplin.
    “And now,” she continued, “all we need is a common, ordinary, all-purpose food stamp.” She flourished a ten-dollar food stamp like a magician, presenting both sides for Mary Ann’s examination.
    “Do you get food stamps?” asked Mary Ann. She makes four times what I do, thought the secretary.
    Mona didn’t answer, absorbed in the operation. She rolled the food stamp into a little tube and stuck it in her left nostril. “Stunning, eh? Verry sexy!”
    She went after the powder like an anteater on the rampage. Mary Ann was horrified. “Mona, is that …?”
    “It’s your turn.”
    “No, thank you.”
    “Aw … go ahead. It’s good for social occasions.”
    “I’m nervous enough as it is.”
    “It doesn’t make you nervous, dearheart. It …”
    Mary Ann stood up. “I have to go, Mona. I’m late.”
    “God!”
    “What?”
    “You make me feel like such … an addict.”
    Mrs. Madrigal looked almost elegant in black satin pajamas and a matching cloche.
    “Ah, Mary Ann. I’m grinding the gazpacho. Help yourself to the hors d’oeuvres. I’ll be right back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”
    The “hors d’oeuvres” were arranged