Tales of the City 01 - Tales of the City

tittered.
    Prue rang the silver bell gently. “Please … DeDe is going to share with us. We’re your sisters, DeDe. You can be up front with us.”
    “It was … awful,” DeDe said at last. “Of course it was,” Prue said sympathetically. “Can you tell us where it happened, DeDe?”
    DeDe swallowed. “At home,” she said feebly.
    Prue clutched the front of her sari. “Not … an intruder?”
    “No,” said DeDe. “A grocery boy.”
    When she got home, she picked up the phone and dialed Jiffy’s, ordering a box of doughnuts and a can of Drano.
    Lionel was up in ten minutes.

Romance in the Rink
    M ONA CELEBRATED HER FIRST DAY OF FREEDOM with a leisurely morning cappuccino at Malvina’s. When she returned to Barbary Lane, Michael was in the shower.
    “Christ! Didn’t you get enough steam at the tubs last night?”
    Michael stuck his head around the curtain. “Oh … sorry. Open a window, O.K.? No, here … I’ll do it.” He climbed out of the stall, dripping wet, and cranked open the window.
    “Uh … Michael, dearheart?”
    “Huh?”
    “Why are you doing that?”
    “Doing what?”
    “Wearing your Levi’s in the shower.”
    “Oh …” He laughed, hopping back into the stall. “I’m wire-brushing my basket. See?” He picked up a wire brush from the floor of the stall. “Just the thing for achieving that well-worn shading in just the right places.” Scraping the brush gingerly across the crotch of his jeans, he screwed his face into an expression of mock pain. “Arrrggh!”
    Mona was bland. “Do-it-yourself S & M?”
    Michael flicked water at her. “They’ll be devastating when they’re dry.”
    “Where’d you pick that one up? Hints from Heloise?”
    “This is no frivolous matter, woman. These babies have to be perfection by tonight.”
    “Date with Chuck?”
    “Who? … Oh, no. I’m going to the Grand Arena.”
    “New bar?”
    “Nope. A skating rink.”
    “You’re going ice-skating?”
    “Roller-skating. Tuesday is Gay Night.”
    Mona rolled her eyes. “Now I know I’m gonna kill myself.”
    “It’s a scream. You’d love it.”
    “I never even heard of it.”
    Michael climbed out of the shower, shucked the wet jeans and toweled off. “Some fag hag you are.”
    “I didn’t hear that,” said Mona, heading into the hallway.
    He didn’t make it to the Grand Arena until eight o’clock, so he was prepared for the worst.
    It happened, of course.
    They had already run out of men’s skates.
    Small wonder. The giant South San Francisco rink was jammed with flannel-shirted men, circling the floor in predatory delight.
    Michael caught his breath.
    He shed his navy-blue cotton parka, submitted to the indignity of women’s skates (white, with nelly-looking tassels) and clopped his way awkwardly to the edge of the rink.
    He grinned when he recognized the recorded organ music: “I Enjoy Being a Girl.”
    There were half a dozen girls on the rink. Four of them were under twelve. The others were beehived Loretta Lynn lookalikes in sherbet-colored skating costumes. They were welded to sherbet-colored partners of the opposite sex, who propelled them across the floor like Brisbane’s answer to Baryshnikov.
    The other hundred men were less graceful.
    Arms flailing and teeth flashing, they rolled around the rink in a swelling tide of denim. Some were alone; others snaked along merrily in lines of four or five. For Michael, it was a magical sight.
    He waited for a moment, steeling himself.
    When was the last time? Murphey’s Skating Rink … Orlando, 1963.
    He murmured a short, conventional Baptist prayer. Werner was never there when he needed him.
    He wasn’t half bad, actually.
    A little wobbly on the turns, but nothing to snicker at.
    After five minutes, he had gained enough confidence to concentrate on serious cruising.
    So far, his favorite was a blond guy in chinos and a blue Gant shirt. He looked like the vice president of every high school class in northern Florida. He probably still drove a Mustang.
    And he was skating alone.
    Michael moved in the direction of his quarry, overtaking two small black kids in Dyn-O-Mite Tshirts. The only hindrance now was a couple of sherbet straights, doing a very showy Arthur Murray routine less than ten feet away.
    The couple heeled like a yacht in a gale, drifting off to the left, clearing the way for Michael….
    He felt like a roller derby star, moving in for the kill.
    Fixing his sights on the target, he accelerated at the turn